The Way You Made Me
by Kako Koritsi
Summary: Usually, angel wings were, to human eyes, just mere shadows. To angelic eyes, they held no color, just pure Grace. It was strange to see Dean Winchester's one fluffy white wing, and one mangled decaying bone structure, perched right on his back. That's what you get when you turn a human's soul into a demon's soul and than rebuild the product like an angel, he supposed; a mess.
1. Prologue

Hell was kind of beautiful in its own way, Dean supposed.

Well, it was if you were blind. And deaf. And completely numb throughout your whole body. And, y'know, not currently inhabiting a body. Or a soul. Then, yeah, Hell was drop-dead gorgeous.

He sighed, and a bit of his own soul was put into the action, along with a lot of blood. Blood, that tasted so cruel and harsh in his mouth, poisoning his tongue and clouding up his eyes along with the pain. Constant, constant pain.

There was another one above him. It had always been above him for as long as he had been below it, and it never left like he never left- the difference was, it could. And he couldn't. And that was just a too-sad-thought to be thinking, because his thoughts still sometimes got buried under desperate pleas of need.

Need of what? That was the question. Or a question. _The_ question was a bit too important and fatal and bad. Because bad could describe everything.

And it kind if did. Bad described the feeling of a blade shaving off his skin; bad put the sensation of a scream so full it ripped apart your throat into sparkling clarity. Bad was what one should really be calling Hell, and yet he called it beautiful?

The torture stopped for a moment at this time, like it always did, and its voice spoke like honey in ears he really wasn't sure were still there. He would've held his breath in anticipation if he still had any left, but it all had gone away with the screams and the sigh.

"So, Dean," it posed, too casual, too cheerful, too kind. He felt a blade chase tears across his cheeks, but didn't see a thing. "What's it gonna be this time?"

"What do you think?" He spat back, with a voice he shouldn't have. He couldn't place how it sounded.

The jagged knife dug into his skin, just a little bit, too close to his right eye. If he still had one.

"How 'bout we just say yes, hm? It's not a shabby deal. Tell me you want off, and it's over with the rack. Give you a deceased soul every now and then to torture, but that's part of the gig. They're already gonna be tortured; do you have to be?"

He growled. It laughed.

"Dean," it said again, coming off demented giggles and adapting that edge to its tones. "No one is coming to get you. You. Are. Alone." The words were given a moment to sink in, along with that pointed end of it's knife. "All you have to say is yes."

He spat in its face, and that was that.

After a while, when the chains at his wrists and ankles didn't dig into soft flesh too roughly, and the darkness was only slightly darker than closing his eyes, and he was soaked so much in blood that hope didn't dare try to intoxicate his mind with false promises- it was than that he started to see Hell for what it was. For what it had always been.

Maybe it was a little beautiful.


	2. Chapter One

It was only wisps of what had been whole, now. Snatches of screams, flashes of red, like a ghost of a kiss or an old wound; not quite there, but not quite gone.

Dean felt... strange. It was the blood pounding in his ears, the bitter taste in his mouth, the rawness of his skin- strange. Maybe it was because there was no more pain. Maybe it was because he missed it.

Another large intake of breath had him trying to sit up, head colliding with musty-smelling wood. His heart beat a little faster when he realized he was trapped in a box, blinking in the darkness, a change from being suspended over the abyss of Hell with only chains to keep him from falling.

His hand, with all its fingers actually there, pulled at a worn jacket. It was a moment before he finally clasped the metal lighter concealed in his inside pocket, body shaking, and even longer until it was lit. Fire flooded into the small space along with light, only to flicker off seconds later.

Dean liked the darkness more.

Hands let the lighter fall, moving instead to pound on the confinement around him. Panic began to rise up, but so did a little glee; it had been so long since he had felt emotions.

He tried to call for help, but it just came out as a scratchy whine. He tried again, more urgently, bringing up coughs in the process. Yet, why couldn't he stop smiling?

The grin faded as time wore on. His fingers pried anxiously at any possible weak spots in the case. Another cough that was originally a laugh escaped chapped lips when the top creaked, respond to constant kicking. Another well-placed kick made the cover give away, and when an endless amount of dirt fell on top of him, he found out he was in a buried coffin.

Dean's hands were the first to touch pure sunlight, rising out of the mound of soil. When his head rose up, tasting his first taste of outdoor air in forty years, his face already felt like it was burning. The sun glared into his eyes, so he closed them, opting to weakly rise himself out of the ground.

With a few groans and mangled screams, it was over, body sprawled out against dying grass. His breathing came out short and heavy, short of gasping, features covered in dirt. He rolled onto his back, facing the sky, eyes opening.

Trees were laying dead and destroyed, all around his petty grave, the sound of crows up above. The hot temperature was lava to his skin, pale and clammy, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, because as that moment, Dean Winchester's eyes, pupil, iris and all had been swallowed up by black.

* * *

It was really, really hot.

Wind had gone extinct, exchanged instead for blistering heat waves and the buzzing of cicadas. Dean barely managed to stumble across roasting asphalt, jacket tied around his waist. Yet, it felt amazing. He had forgotten what it was like to be alive.

It was a little over two hours until he actually reached some show of civilization; a gas stop. He almost felt like dying of happiness at the show of the shabby building, wide smile gracing his features as his slight limp sped up.

It was closed. That much was obvious as he pounded on the glass window, voice cracking in the measly 'hello.' Dean nodded to himself, wrapping his blue jacket around his fist before punching the glass. It broke easily, spraying across the inside of the room.

He nearly passed out at the taste of fresh water, singling it out in the refrigerators and downing three quarters of the bottle in one gulp. He looked around the room, grabbing a crisp newspaper off the rack and nearly choking on the date.

"September?" Dean murmured. It had only been four months. _Four months_.

He went over to the sink, not sparing the mirror a glance and turning on the water. He brought wet hands to his face, scrubbing off some of the dirt. When Dean finally looked up, he had to bite a gasp.

His fingers shakily made their way to his face, each movement reflected. His eyes hadn't changed back to green all this time, still empty voids. It was unnerving in the least. They really had broke him, broke his soul. He never thought that, when Alistair had bragged about making Dean one of them, it actually fully happened.

"I'm a demon," he whispered, and it was the most disgusting sentence he had ever said.

Dean's hands moved away from their place, pulling up his shirt. His chest was perfectly clean, no cuts or blood. He let the fabric drop once more, staring dumbly at his reflection.

It was only when his shoulder started tingling that he moved back his sleeve. An angry red handprint was burned into the flesh, and Dean winced- but it didn't hurt. The only thing that did ache was his missing memories, like a ghost itch, something he couldn't touch or scratch because it was gone.

He left the bathrooms, going around the gas station and grabbing whatever supplies he could fit inside a small plastic bag. His eyes found a familiar magazine, and he grinned in spite of himself, picking it up and flipping through the pages. Dean slipped it into the bag at last, intent to leave and call up the phone box out front, but not before emptying the cash register.

He only grabbed around a hundred bucks and a handful of quarters, not knowing how long it was going to be until he found Sam and Bobby but not quite willing to take all the place's earnings. As he grabbed what he needed, the television next to him flickered on spontaneously, displaying static.

Dean gave it a dubious look, reaching over to turn it off. The radio was next, blaring awake, and he deserted the money to pay it some mind. He made to walk over to it before the television turned back on, whizzing angrily.

He walked quickly over to the cans of salt as music started wafting through the speakers, sprinkling the contents over the doorway. Sharp buzzing started to come over the music as Dean frantically poured out the can's contents.

It became unbearably loud, forcing him to cover his ears and huddle down. Glass started breaking apart overhead, shattering over his body. He picked himself up and ran to the door, but was knocked back as the windows exploded. Dean's eyes flickered spasmodically as he fell to the floor, the buzzing stopping all at once and leaving him alone.

* * *

His fingers anxiously punched in the numbers, a small beeping sound coming from the cheap pay phone as it dialed. It went to voicemail so he put in another quarter and dialed again, not having to wait much this time around.

"_Yeah_?" The voice was gruff and weary, but Dean's heart nearly jumped out of his chest.

"Bobby?" He whipped out.

There wasn't a pause. "_Yeah_?" He asked again.

"It's me," Dean answered, like that could explain everything in the world.

"_Who's me_?" The other man retaliated, annoyed. He took a deep breath, huffing out the answer.

"Dean." The name was stressed out in its single syllable. The line was dropped as Bobby hung up, and he only stared.

He dialed again only two seconds later, pressing the phone tight against his ear. It picked up on the first ring. "_Who is this_?"

Dean dismissed the threatening tone. "Bobby, listen to me," he begged, but was cut off.

"_Tell you what_," it growled. "_Call again an' I'll kill ya_." He hung up, leaving Dean's nerves rattling.

Dean sighed, putting down the phone. A rusty, decaying car caught his eyes outside, and before he knew it, he was trying to get the engine to start up.

He couldn't hide the smile as it groaned into existence, and he drove off, wheels sliding along bumpy gravel.

* * *

His knocks came quick and short against the Singer home, heart pounding against his chest. When Bobby opened the door, Dean felt like jumping for joy.

He was still exactly Dean had remembered him after all these years spent in Hell, image ingrained into his mind. Scruffy beard, trucker cap pulled over his hair; Dean had waited so long to see that face.

"Surprise," he choked out, voice still harsh but flooded with happiness.

Bobby backed up, and for a second Dean wondered if he forgot his sunglasses in the "borrowed" car. "I- I don't-"

His pupils were blown wide with horror and confusion. Dean forced a smile, taking a tentative step in, mindful of any devil's traps. "Yeah, me neither," he supplied for him. "But here I am."

He saw the blade coming before it hit, swinging in his direction in a beeline to his face. Dean grabbed a hold of Bobby's arm just in time, scuffing around until the man's fist connected with his jaw. He backed up, shielding his face and pressing his sunglasses on tighter.

"Bobby, it's me!" He yelled. Bobby snorted.

"My ass," he replied, going for Dean again. The demon in turn held out a chair between them, surrender written all across his face.

"Wait!" Bobby stopped for a moment, complying. "Your name is Robert Stephan Singer, you- you became a hunter after your wife got possessed," he paused, racking his brain. "You're about the closest thing I have to a father." Honest dripped off of each letter.

Bobby stilled completely, shock sprawled across his face. "Bobby.." Dean whispered, voice struggling and cracking at the tips from misuse. "It's me."

The stayed like that for a while, Bobby clutching onto the silver knife, before dragging the chair out of the way. Dean held up his hands cautiously, but the older hunter only reached out to touch his shoulder gently, as if checking if he was still real or not. Dean smiled slightly before having to duck as Bobby lunged for him again.

He yelped, praying his glasses stayed on as he held on to the man. "I'm not a shapeshifter!"

"Then you're a-" Dean cut him off, shoving Bobby away.

"No!" He yelled, breathing heavily. He had managed to snag the knife from Bobby, and now held it in his palms. "Okay, if I was a shifter," he started, gathering up his courage. "Could I do this, with a silver knife?"

He brought up his sleeve and held the blade to his skin, cutting across his arm. He had to bite back the yelp, the sting stringer than usual on his slightly raw skin, but not nearly as bad as it would be if he actually _were_ a shapeshifter. Still, the extra kick of pain made him even more disgusted in himself, and he would've offed himself by now if scenes from Hell weren't still imprinted in his mind.

Bobby gaped at him. "Dean?" Relief flooded into him.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," he grit out, still wincing slightly from the pain. He walked over to Bobby, gladly accepting the hug.

Bobby was still shaking when they parted. "It's good to see ya, boy," he managed. Dean let his hand rest on the older man's shoulder.

"Yeah, you too," he replied. It was great while it lasted, but Bobby's smile slowly melted.

"But," he started. "How did'ja bust out?"

"I don't know," Dean answered, shaking his head. He looked away, the flickering of his eyes becoming insistent. "I just," he faltered, starting to turn back. "I just woke up in a-" He interrupted himself with a scream as holy water was splashed in his face, burning him.

He was punched once more, sprawling out on the floor. Dean could only cover his face and whimper as he felt the end of a gun pressing into his chest, the noises coming from his throat even more demeaning in the situation.

Hands pulled off the sunglasses, revealing his black eyes that were constantly switching into green and back again. Dean finally found his vision returning, Bobby's furious face gazing down at him.

"As I was saying," he growled. "_My ass_." As his fingers moved to pull the trigger, something tugged at Dean's gut, and before he knew it Bobby was knocked back onto the floor.

Dean was breathing heavily as he stumbled to his feet, blood oozing down his cheeks, features burned and lightly smoking. He didn't even want to know what he looked like right now, silently thanking whatever company made the sunglasses the had spared his eyes from the same fate. Bobby made to get up but Dean wildly reached out, an unknown force pushing Bobby back against the floor.

Only five seconds had passed before he let go, opting to push the gun across the room. He stared at his hands; telekinesis?

Bobby's gruff voice found it's way to Dean's ears. "What're ya gonna do now, idjit?" He growled. "Ship me off back to Lilith? Congratulations- you managed to capture a balding, middle-aged man, all on your own. Really good job, truly." Dean held out his hands in surrender as Bobby made no move to get to his feet.

"No," he said defiantly. "That's not it. Listen," he sighed, running his fingers through his hair, being mindful of the burns on his face that were slowly getting more intense. He'd have to do something about that, soon. "When I was- trapped down there," he shuddered. "They made me into, well," he gestured to himself. "This."

"I had _no _idea," Bobby snarled.

Dean glared at him, willing his eyes to settle on green, not much surprised when they ignored him. Bobby watched, smugness and amusement in his smirk. "I'm not a monster," he insisted, wincing inwardly when the older man snorted. "Okay, so I am," he admitted. "But I don't feel like it- okay, you know what? Never mind." Bobby raised his eyebrows and Dean walked over, pulling him up.

"Whadd'ya think your do-" Dean interrupted, grabbing the silver knife and flinging it across the kitchen.

"Where's Sam?" Another snort.

"Like I'm gonna tell you," the hunter snarled. Dean sighed, gently prodding at his face with a nearby napkin to get rid of the blood.

"Fine, then," he said, pushing Bobby to the door, mildly surprised when there was no response. "Show me."

Bobby looked at him dubiously as Dean grabbed some more napkins for the trip, pulling him outside. "I have a car-"

"You stole a car," Bobby snickered.

"-so you just tell me the directions," he continued, opening the door for Bobby. "And we'll both go there."

They both stood there, glaring at each other for a long time, the sun retreating to the distant trees. Finally, Dean offered up helpfully, "Hey, you'll get to kill me a lot easier this way." He smiled anxiously as Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Idjit," he muttered, climbing into the seat.


	3. Chapter Two

The hotel was trashy on the outside, neon sign (reading "Astoria") blaring too brightly in the night. Paint was peeling off as the letters flickered in and out if existence, and the sad thing was he had been in worse.

The inside was fairly better, all fresh oak doors and soft lamps. Of course, Dean was too busy glaring at Bobby through newly-bought sunglasses to care much about the decor. Driving around aimlessly in circles until Bobby had admitted that he was clueless on the whereabouts of his brother, and then finding out that said brother was tucked away into a place like _this_ in Illinois- well, that did wonders to his mood.

Their shoes thumped and clacked against hardwood floors, making their way over to Sam's room. Bobby was the one to knock, Dean not able to confirm that his life would stay intact were Bobby to walk undetected behind him.

The knocks were hard and quick, the door opening immediately after. The one behind it made Dean do a double-take, small and feminine and decisively _not_ his brother.

She looked at them quizzically. They looked at her. "Well," she started, raising her eyebrows. "Where is it?"

Dean glanced at Bobby, who was pointedly ignoring his gaze, before answering. "Where's what?"

She rolled her eyes, thin form leaning against the doorway. "The pizza, that takes two guys to deliver."

Dean offered a nervous smile, heart sinking. "I think we've got the wrong room," he said, ready to turn on his heel before a voice spoke up.

"Who's at the-" it stopped abruptly upon entering the exposed living room, and Dean couldn't help the smile that broke free across his face. It was his brother, with floppy hair and kind eyes and loneliness pouring off in waves. It was the kid that Dean had dreamed about saving down in the Pit, the kid that he would risk his life for over and over again, the kid he had given his life for.

Sam stood there for a while, frozen, face shifting between shock and constipation. His eyes found Dean's immediately, darting towards Bobby and back again.

Dean was still smiling. "Heya, Sammy," he said, voice breaking slightly towards the end. Sam was breathing heavy now, eyes hard, and Dean stepped through the door.

The girl allowed him in, and he slowly walked towards his brother, about to pull him into a hug when Sam extracted a hidden blade from his pocket. He lunged toward Dean, both crashing into the wall as the girl shrieked.

"Who are you?" He demanded, knife at Dean's throat. He tried to break free, he really did, but leftover weariness and pain kept him trapped.

He instead adapted a rough tone, glaring at his brother through cheap shades. "Like you didn't do this," he bit out, earning a hard glare.

"What are you talking about?" Dean could see Bobby pushing the girl out and closing the door, choosing to lean against the doorframe with a smirk on his face.

"Bobby!" He whined, and he knew it was a whine, but he thought he was entitled to it. This day just never ended.

"Yes?" He looked into Dean's begging expression and only laughed. "I'm sorry, were you expecting help? I thought we both agreed that the reason for bringing you over was to gank your sorry ass." Dean groaned as Bobby came over and pulled the sunglasses off, revealing his flickering eyes.

He could see something breaking inside of Sam, and that just kind of made him want to die. Instead he opted to use his newfound powers, somewhat unwillingly, to fling the blade out of his brother's hand.

He earned himself the epitome of pure hatred pining him against the wall even harder and punching him square in the face. The sting that came with hard knuckles meeting blistering skin was just pouring salt in his wounds. Perfect, really.

"Okay!" He spoke, frustration growing by the second. "What will it take to prove that I'm not a monster?"

Bobby snorted while Sam scowled. "Nuthin', mostly 'cause it's kinda obvious what you are. But nice try." Dean sighed.

"Okay, okay, bad choice of words," he admitted. "What I meant to say was, how can I convince you that I'm not evil?" Bobby opened his mouth to reply, but it was Sam that answered.

"Take off your shirt." Dean's eyes actually stopped flickering at that, landing on green, as he raised his eyebrows.

"Now, Sammy, I know you might be thrilled to see me, but now's not really the time," he said as Sam's grip loosened slightly.

"Dean," he grit out evenly. "Take off the shirt." The demon held up his hands in surrender as Sam let go, pulling the flimsy tee over his shoulders.

Sam's breath hitched as he zoned in on the blazing hand-print left on his arm. His eyes switched over to a spot below Dean's shoulders, and he looked too, finally seeing what his genius brother meant.

"The anti-possession tattoo," he murmured, quickly raising his voice. "See? Still intact. I'm not possessed." The relief was evident, he knew that, but didn't quite care.

Bobby scoffed, and Dean mentally killed himself for the pain evident in the hunter's eyes. "Don't prove nuthin'," he grit out. "Could be something different possessing the meat suit."

Dean fixed him with the sincerest expression he could muster. "Bobby," he stressed. "All this time, I haven't tried to hurt or kill you once. Same goes for Sam. It _is_ me, back from the Pit." He shifted to Sam. "I understand if you don't believe me, I do. But please, there has to be someway I can prove it," he begged.

Sam looked over at Bobby. "Well?" The older hunter had his eyes trained on Dean, alert.

"Well what, boy?" He barked. Sam sighed, running his hands over his face.

"Do you know anyone who can prove if this is the real Dean?"

Bobby thought long and hard about that, before sighing in admittance. "I might," he told them. "But don't get your hopes up." He walked up to the demon, meeting his green eyes.

"And you," he warned. "You get any ideas, or if it turns out you're just a better actor than most..." Dean got the message, nodding.

"Awesome," his brother spoke up, rubbing his hands together anxiously. "Let's go, then."

* * *

It was the kind of house that Dean had wanted to settle in for a long time, fresh-looking paint and shady trees. The windows gleamed brightly, birds singing too far away with too sweet tones.

The sun was gradually being swallowed up by clouds as the Impala rolled over into the driveway. Dean was the last to get out, still muttering darkly about being forced in the back seat of his own car- especially after seeing what she had been put through when he was gone.

Bobby knocked hard on the door. It was only a few seconds until it swung open, hands enveloping around the older hunter's waist as his name was exclaimed.

Dean looked away, wishing that his second pair of glasses today hadn't been confiscated. The burns on his face gave out little thrums of pain as the slightest winds picked up around them.

Sam gave him an almost concerned glance before looking back at the two. The demon forced himself to look, too, when his pupils settled, observing the athletic woman with glistening black hair cascading down her shoulders.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Bobby said as they let go, laughter bubbling up in his words. She crossed her arms, looking at Sam and Dean, a large grin eating up her features.

"So," she posed. "These the boys?" At the question, Bobby seemed to deflate slightly.

"Mostly," he said. Pointing at his brother, he spoke. "This here's Sam. Sam, meet Pamela, best damn psychic in the state." Said woman raised her eyebrows, facing Dean.

"And you?" She asked. Bobby snorted, a scowl on his face.

"That's the problem," he said, and Dean flipped him off as he turned away, due to the flicker in his eyes. "This here is Dean; or at least, his meat suit."

"It is me!" He said, turning back, because this got old hours ago. He only realized it was a stupid move when his eyes started changing again.

Pamela looked at him openly. "I see. Back from Hell, then, with a few changes?" Bobby answered for him.

"That's what he says," he muttered. "Listen, you wouldn't happen to know anything that can make a person tell the truth, would ya?" She thought about that for a while as Dean silently fumed.

"Well," she offered. "I could always try to take a peak into his mind," she offered, amulet on her neck glimmering.

Sam spoke up at that. "It may not be that best idea," he said, Pamela only shrugging.

"I do have something else," she told them. "But it'll take at least a week."

"Okay," Sam decided. Bobby didn't seem so happy about it, but reluctantly nodded. She fixed them all with another smile.

"Come on in," she offered, and they did, door closing behind his back.


	4. Chapter Three

It was a pretty house, all old china and polished tables, curtains drawn over windows and a large chandelier overhead. He took a seat at the table while the others preferred to stand, Pamela going through one of the dressers.

"So, a week?" He said, trying to avoid Bobby's hard stares. His eyes switched almost lazily, following the acclaimed psychic around the room.

"Yup," she replied, grabbing a few jars from the cabinets and setting them down on the table. He looked over them quizzically.

"What exactly takes a week?" She stopped what she was doing to face Dean, arms crossed.

"Well, a kind of potion," she told him. "Makes the person under it obliged to tell the truth. I'm no newbie to witchcraft, and if you can't trust a good reading then maybe you can trust this." She glanced at Bobby, who had already started to shake his head.

"No potions," he said like it was obvious. Pamela rolled her eyes before addressing Dean again.

"Why do you need to know?" She asked, abandoning the jars to take a seat across from him. "You got somewhere to be?"

He took a deep breath, and pupils clicked, but he didn't know which color they landed on. "I think there might be someone chasing me," he admitted, flinching as Sam stiffened and entered the conversation.

"Chasing you?" He said, voice rough. "Like who?"

"No idea," he answered, looking up to his brother. "There was just this really loud _noise_ in a gas station a while back, and everything shattered, and..." He paused, offering a shrug. "And you saw my arm."

Pamela straightened. "Arm?" She questioned, eyes narrowing. In response he pulled back his sleeve, revealing the angry red handprint embedded in the skin. She looked it over, eyes excited.

"Okay," she began, standing up to meet Bobby. "You don't want to place your trust in any readings or alchemy without solid proof, right?" Bobby nodded, unsure of where this was going. "Well, I can get you that proof." She started storing the mysterious jars away, closing the cabinet doors.

"Using the mark," she pointed to Dean's arm. "We can enact a summoning ritual of sorts, bring whoever raised Dean from Hell. If nothing happens, then he's possessed," Pamela stated, making Dean's nerves rattle. "If someone shows up, than he's not, and we know who to torture for questions." She leaned against the cream-colored walls, waiting.

"Are you sure this is a good place? I mean, to have a strong-ass demon on the loose?" She gave him a grin, blue eyes alit.

"When I say summoning ritual," she explained. "I don't really mean that. I'll just be... getting a peak at it, if you will."

Sam spoke up for them. "And you're positive this works? That we won't be letting a demon go or killing my brother?" Yeah, he wanted to know that, too.

She nodded, expression serious. "I can assure you that it will work." Sam and Bobby shared a look before turning back.

"Okay," the old hunter said, and the corners of Pamela's mouth pulled up into a smile.

* * *

She lead them farther into the house, with no windows and shaded lamps, ornate candles hung on walls. A circular ebony table lay in the middle, a devil's trap carved into the dark wood, and framed pictures took up the walls.

The brother's watched as Bobby and Pamela dashed about the room, the latter going over a small shelf of books in the corner. Her shirt rode up, displaying the words _Jesse Forever_ in cursive print on her lower back.

"Who's Jesse?" He questioned, almost teasingly, a little surprised when she only chuckled. She turned around to face him, grinning.

"Well, it wasn't forever," she assured, going back to pull some items off the shelf.

"His loss," he said, watching as he stood and walked back over to him. A strange pendant glimmered on her neck, encased in blue and silver. "Might be your gain," she suggested, and his eyebrows rose.

"Dude, I'm so in," he murmured to Sam, trying to push down the way that his heart didn't quicken like it usually did. Trying to ignore how he didn't feel it like he was supposed to.

"She's going to eat you alive," his brother said, and Dean was glad that he wasn't shooting daggers at him like Bobby across the room.

"Yeah, I just got out of jail," he shot back, and was about to continue when he saw Sam stiffen. He chose to quiet down after that, letting his brother walk over to the table.

They all took a seat after a few moments, the table top littered with candles. Upon closer inspection Dean noticed that it wasn't actually a devil's trap, but a strange symbol that he faintly remembered seeing in John's journal.

He focused on Pamela as she spoke, trying to push down the panic. "Right," she said, gesturing at them all. "Take each other's hands," she ordered, grabbing Dean's. Sam didn't seen too happy about it but relented, joining hands with Bobby on the other side. "And Dean," she spoke, looking at him. "Care to show me your arm?"

He allowed her to pull back on the thin flannel, soft hands landing on the mark. His eyes briefly switched as a shudder went through his body at the contact, only noticed by the psychic. She grinned at him, winking before addressing the others.

"Good," she said, closing her eyes, and the rest followed suit. Pamela took a deep breath before staring. "I invoke, conjure and command you," she spoke, tones even. "Appear unto me before this circle. I invoke, conjure and command you, appear unto me before this circle." She continued the chant and he let his eyelids flit open, glancing around the room.

He had to press back the jump as the television in the corner went off, reminding Dean of the gas station incident. "I invoke, conjure and command you," Pamela continued, never halting. The table began shaking, and she paused. "Castiel?" She asked, and another shock ran up his arm as he whipped his head towards the psychic. "No, sorry Castiel, but I don't scare easily."

"Castiel?" He asked, feeling Sam's hands tighten subconsciously.

"Its name, its whispering to me, warning me to turn back," she answered. He looked to Bobby and Sam, who still both had their eyes shut, and Pamela continued.

"I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face. _I conjure and command you, show me your face._" The table shook harder, and Dean's eyes meet those of Bobby's, filtered with worry and slight regret.

"Hey, maybe you can stop," the hunter said, and she turned to him swiftly.

"I almost go it," she insisted stubbornly, carrying on with the chant. "I conjure and command you, show me your face. I command you, _show me your face_. _Show me your face_. Show me your face, _now_!" The same feeling went up his arm again and he shuddered, joined hands breaking apart at Pamela's screams. He looked over just in time to see her pupils fill with white, blood dripping down her face.

* * *

The diner was small and ragged, jukebox playing softly in the corner, seats rough and torn at. "Be back in a jiffy," he heard the waitress say but didn't look up, eyes trained on the table.

He took notice of Sam's heavy footsteps, looking up behind yet another pair of sunglasses as his brother sat across from him. "What did Bobby say?" He pressed, fingers taping anxiously on the counter.

"Pam's stable," he assured Dean. "And out of ICU."

"And blind," he mumbled, nerves impaling his instincts like they had been for the last ten minutes. Everything felt _off_, somehow. "Because of us."

"And we still have no clue what we're dealing with," he agreed, expression downcast. Dean sighed, raking his hands across his face.

"Well, that's not entirely true," he amended, and Sam's eyebrows went up.

"No?"

"We got a name," he supplied. "Castiel, or whatever. With the right mumbo-jumbo we could summon him, bring 'im right to us."

Sam shook his head. "You're crazy," he snorted. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?" He urged, and was fixed with a hard look from Sam.

"Pamela took one peak at him and her eyes burned right out of her skull," he reminded him, like Dean needed reminding. "And you want to have a face-to-face with the thing?"

"What do you propose we do?" He offered, and Sam straightened up.

"We follow some demons out of town, right?" Dean nodded uncertainly. "Then find out all they know. Someone's got to know something, right?"

"I guess," he shrugged, looking down again. All of his senses were screaming at him to high-tail it out of the place, his arm stinging slightly.

"Hey," Sam muttered, poking him on the shoulder, and Dean looked up. "I'm sorry. About, y'know," he gestured at Dean slightly. "The whole demon thing."

"It's fine," he replied, and meant it. "I would've been suspicious, too." Sam looked like he wanted to say something more, but was interrupted by their waitress.

She set their plates down on the counter, and Dean looked up for the first time to thank her before freezing. His whole body stilled, eyes locking onto the woman.

"Dean?" Sam asked, concerned, but he didn't reply. The girl's small form was almost transparent, and he could see the wisps of black smoke curling around her insides, incasing her heart. He faintly noticed her smile.

"Dean," she murmured, voice deep, and he felt Sam stiffen. "To Hell and back. Aren't you a lucky duck?"

He flashed her a grin, pulling off the glasses. His eyes settled on black, and the woman's pupils followed, along with the rest of the occupants in the diner. She reciprocated the grin, leaning closer, and Dean didn't back off. "That's me."

"So, you just get to stroll out of the pit, huh?" She questioned, eyes narrowing and fading back to brown. "You're clearly not one of us, not really. Tell me, what makes you so special?"

"I like to think its because of my perky nipples," he quipped, choosing to lean even closer to the demon, and his eyes flashed victoriously when she backed up. "Any more questions?"

"Yeah," she replied. "How would your head look mounted up on my wall?"

He growled, actually _growled_, and the table shook slightly. She smiled at that, teasingly. "You don't even know how to control it," she mused, and Dean felt his brother's concerned gaze on him.

"Cute," he spat, before going ahead and slapping her across the face. Her head went sideways before snapping back, only to have him do it again. "Let's be honest, here," he spoke, watching her steadily. "You're not actually going to kill us. Truth is," he stopped to hit her again, and something deep inside was pleased when she stayed in the position. "You don't know what the hell pulled me out, and you're just as spooked as we are.

"And really," he continued, grinning. "It doesn't matter who. Whatever it is- they _want_ me out. And they're a lot stronger than you." He stood, grabbing her by the neck. "_I'm_ a lot stronger than you." She whimpered slightly, eyes shifting, and he knew that he won.

"That's what I thought," he murmured. "Let's go, Sam." He lead the way out through the doors, not sparing a glance behind them.

* * *

_Check out my _**Bio**_ for any news on this story and my others, including update times (not set dates), expectations to reach for next chapters, and any thanks to you humans for viewing/favoriting/following/reviewing this story._


	5. Chapter Four

_I changed the name. Woohoo! :D_

_Enjoy._

* * *

The night outside was cold and dark, wind whistling through the trees and hiding away the stars. The car rumbled gently down the beaten road, the silence it carried inside almost deafening.

Dean brushed away at the blood on his hands and cuts on his arms, a loud ringing still resonating in his ears, the beginnings of a headache pounding away on the inside of his mind. He seethed, eyes no longer flashing but instead a decided black, and that made Dean even more angry.

Bobby glanced at him, worryingly, and the fatherly concern in the older man's expression did some to cheer him up. Bobby hadn't been apologetic, exactly, after the whole psychic episode, but he had been a lot kinder. And Dean could use that, even if he really didn't deserve it after the things he's done.

The _thing_ he's become.

The hunter spoke up, voice gruff. "How ya doin', kid?"

He grunted, throwing the rag away when it became too dirty to be of much help. "Besides the church bells ringing in my head, peachy." The reply was followed by a deep frown, and Bobby sighed.

Dean fished his phone out of his pocket, dialing one of Sam's numbers and holding the phone to his ear, mindful of the scratches on his cheek caused by shards of glass.

It picked up after the first ring. "_Hey_."

Dean didn't waste time. "What're you doing?"

"_Couldn't sleep_," Sam answered, and Dean knew the feeling. "_Went to get a burger_."

Dean was slightly incredulous at that. "With my car?"

"_Force of habit_," his brother admitted, tone slightly sheepish. "_What are you doing up, anyway?_"

Dean considered what to say. Something about this conversation seemed off, like when he looked at Sam hard enough and concentrated. Something about _Sam_ seemed off.

"Uh, well," he began, thinking. The car made a swift turn, wind stilling for the smallest of moments and the smallest of stars beginning to peek in through the tree branches. It was a cloudless night, cold and silent.

"Bobby's back," Dean decided, ignoring the strange look shot at him. "Going to grab a beer." He tested the lie on his tongue, the words tasting sour.

"_Okay_," Sam said, seeming the smallest put off, and Dean held up a finger to Bobby who was only getting more confused. "_Spill some for me?_"

"Done," Dean told him hastily, suddenly wanting to hang up. "Yeah, catch you later," he finished, closing the phone.

"Why the hell didn't you tell 'im?" The older hunter barked, shooting Dean a quizzical look.

"He'd just try to stop us," he reasoned, but that wasn't the whole truth. Honestly, he had no idea why. Sam just seemed darker, and a part of it got to a part of Dean that he himself didn't fully understand. He didn't want his brother in on this.

"From what?" Bobby forced. Dean turned over, making eye contact for a brief moment.

"From summoning this thing," he decided, tone flat. "It's time we face it head-on," he elaborated, recalling him and his brother's conversation at the diner. No, Sammy wouldn't want to do it this way, but he also wasn't the one being assaulted by who-knows-what every five minutes.

"You can't be serious," Bobby told him, hands gripping the wheel tightly.

"As a heart-attack," he quipped, flashing Bobby an award-winning grin. "That's how I do it, baby."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "We don't know what it is," he pressed. "It could be a demon-" he ignored Dean's flinch. "-It could be anything, boy."

"And that's why we gotta be ready for anything," he shot back. Dean cautiously pulled the concealed knife from his boot, making sure not to touch the blade. He held it up, watching the metal glimmer in the passing light of the street lamps, and his whole body itched uncomfortably just by touching the wrapped handle. "We have the magic demon knife, you got an arsenal in the trunk," he reasoned. "We can do this!"

"This is a bad idea," Bobby grumbled, but Dean know he had won.

"I know it is," Dean told him, letting the blade sit in his lap. "But what other choice do we have?"

"We could choose life," he grumbled.

"Bobby," Dean started. "Whatever this is, whatever this wants, it's after me. We know that much for sure, right?" Bobby was quiet, listening. "Well, I've got no place to hide. So, I can either get caught with my pants down again or we can make a stand."

Bobby sighed again, glancing at the younger. "Dean, we could use Sam for this," he said. Dean just shook his head.

"No," he replied, firmly. "Sam's better off where he is."

* * *

The moon shone brightly, making passing clouds glow as they traversed in front of its image. It was a small clearing off to the side of the empty road, the farmhouse large and withering, paint peeling off and doors creaking open.

As soon as the two entered, Bobby made quick work of covering the walls with various symbols and sigils, not leaving a single spot white. Dean laid out all their weapons, from blades to guns to holy water, careful around the specific ones that were designed for demons. His face still burned from earlier, skin turned red over nose and cheeks, and he didn't need a repeat of that episode.

"Quite an art project you have there," he commented, taking a moment to observe the older hunter's work. It was the first time he spoke since the incident with his trunk's devil's trap, or since he took a break from the paranoia when Bobby had to refrain from using demon-suppressing sigils.

"You know it," Bobby smirked, going over to Dean. "How're you doin'?"

Dean started rambling off what they had. "Stakes, iron, salt, knife- yeah, we're pretty much set to catch and kill anything I've ever heard of."

Bobby nodded, but the movement was lost to his worried rambling. "This is still a bad idea."

Dean sighed through his nose, more than a little annoyed. "Yeah, Bobby," he huffed. "I heard you the first time."

Bobby fixed Dean with a hard look, opening his mouth to no doubt give him a speech, before closing it again. The look softened considerably, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Why don't we just ring the doorbell?" He finally said, decidedly. At Dean's nod he went over to the adjoining table, one that displayed a large pot holding a dusty substance that smelled of decay.

Bobby took the scent in, sprinkling something into the pot and taking a deep breath. Closing his eyes, he let the Latin pour from his lips, rough out of his throat.

* * *

Bobby slowly swung his legs back and forth, gently whistling under his breath. Dean sat across from him, fingering Ruby's knife with an annoyed expression on his face.

"You sure you did the ritual right?" He questioned, frustrated. Bobby raised his eyebrows, the younger immediately backing down. "Right, right, touché." He sighed, putting down the blade.

Any further movements were stopped as the ground began quaking, the window flaps overhead pounding against the ceiling. They both stood in unison, backs straight and eyes alert.

"Wishful thinking," Dean started, having to raise his voice so it could carry over to Bobby. "But maybe it's just the wind!"

As soon as the words come out the lamps overhead shatter, glass spilling out above the two and dousing them in darkness. The large doors at the entrance open ominously, thunder wafting in through the cracks, a figure walking towards the hunters.

Dean holds up his gun and aims, shoulder pressed to Bobby's, as sparks rain down on them both. The flashes of light momentarily expose their attacker, a ruffled male with a stoic expression, trenchcoat hanging on his shoulders.

Dean and Bobby both start shooting, bullet holes dotting the creature's chest, but it doesn't seen to faze it. They shoot worried glances at each other as the being makes his way for Dean. The demon's eyes flicker briefly, discreetly grabbing the engraved knife behind him.

"Who're you?" He asks, expression warning. The monster looks at Dean briefly, face changing to look almost empathetic, a ghost of a smile on chapped pink lips.

It's voice is deep and gravelly when it speaks. "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition," he answers, blue irises clear and unwavering.

Dean looks at him hard and long, mouth twitching, eyes completely black. "Yeah," he drawls, his grip on the blade tightening. "Thanks for that."

The being's face briefly pulls into a scowl, seconds before the blade makes contact. The knife digs into skin, where its heart should have been, and Dean begins to panic when it receives no response from the creature.

It slowly pulls the offending weapon out, letting the blade clatter to the floor, an inhuman looking plastering over the monster's features. Dean backs up slowly, giving Bobby a nod behind the two, and the hunter lunges to the being with an iron crowbar in hand.

It doesn't even turn, gripping the bar with impossible force mid-swing. It drops between their hands, the being going to face Bobby and placing two fingers on the hunter's forehead. Bobby sways before falling, body limp, and Dean can only watch with horror on his face.

"We need to talk, Dean," it says, blue eyes riddled with pity and demented kindness, moving impossibly close. "Alone."

Bobby is probably dead, he himself is probably dead, even- but all Dean could see was those strong blue eyes, tugging at the remains of his soul.


	6. Chapter Five

Dean stood over Bobby, searching for a pulse, keeping him hidden from Castiel. It obviously didn't work but he couldn't bring himself to care- as long as the freak stayed away, the situation was manageable.

"Your friend is alive," he spoke, the gravelly voice grating on Dean's nerves. The demon flashed his eyes at him, something that was supposed to be menacing, but Castiel wasn't even looking.

"Who are you?" He barked, staying close to the unconscious hunter. The creature was keeping his true form buried, even from his demon eyes, and it was even more troublesome to the situation.

"Castiel."

Dean scowled. "Yeah, I figured that," he said, standing tentatively. "I mean, _what_ are you?"

The being looked at him at that, blue irises holding confusion, lips parted slightly. "I am an angel of the Lord," he answers, sincerity dripping off each letter.

Dean fixes him with a look, raising his eyebrows. "Get the hell out of here," he snorts. "There's no such thing."

Castiel walked towards him, eyebrows set and expression dangerous. "This is your problem," he told Dean. "You have no faith."

His true essence flickers; bright, stunning light, crawling up the length of Castiel's body, matching the roars of the storm outside. His wings, huge and powerful, circle the demon, never touching. Dean can see his own essence, black and cloudy, trying to reach out to the angel and trying to escape all the same. It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Castiel pulls back, disguising the form, and fixes his eyes at Dean again. Dean's form is still reaching out to the other, tendrils of smoke escaping his lips, and he pulls them back to match the other's stare.

Anger takes the place of wonder when his vision fully comes back, and his voice scrapes roughly against his tongue. "Some angel you are," he gets out. "You burned that poor woman's eyes."

Castiel hangs his head at this, lowering his gaze, and something about it feels _wrong_. "I warned her not to spy on my true form," he says, stepping closer. "It can be overwhelming to humans, as can my voice. But you already knew that."

The sentence escapes somewhat unwillingly through Dean's mouth. "I'm not human anymore."

Castiel looks up again, no more pity in his eyes, just cold calculations. "Yes. We will have to fix that."

"Who's we?" He shoots back, glaring. "The poor bastard you're possessing?"

Castiel shakes his head, almost fervently. "He's a devout man, he actually prayed for this."

"Okay, sure," Dean says, disbelievingly. He doesn't like this, doesn't like this at all, just wants to get away from the barnyard with Bobby and not come back. "Whatever you say."

"You don't think I am telling the truth?" Castiel asks, and he looks like he might show his true colors again.

"Maybe, I don't know," Dean mumbles, clenching his fists. "Why would an angel want to rescue me from Hell?"

Castiel steps closer again, regarding him with that same questioning gaze. "Good things do happen, Dean," he says, breath breaking against the demon's skin.

"Not in my experience," he chokes out. Castiel tilts his head, too close and too real not to be an angel.

"What's the matter?" He asks, like he really doesn't know, doesn't know the horrible person that is Dean Winchester. "You don't think you deserve to be saved," and it isn't a question anymore.

Dean scowls harder, mouth twitching. "Why'd you do it?" He demands, reply quick and uneven.

Castiel straightens then, licking his lips, never backing away. "Because God commanded it," he answers. "Because we have work for you."

* * *

"You should come take a look at this," Bobby says from his desk, glancing at the two brothers. They make their way to the next room, standing over the hunter.

"I've got stacks of lore," Bobby starts, shuffling through a book. "Biblical, pre-biblical; it all says an angel can snatch a soul from the pit."

"What else?" Dean questions, holding into his arm subconsciously. Sam gives him a look, his whole state of being simply _off_ like it had been when they met up, and Dean doesn't reciprocate the gaze.

"What else what?" Dean waves his free hand in a meaningless gesture.

"What else can?"

Bobby raises his eyebrows so high they disappear into his pulled-down hat. "Air-lift your ass out of the hot box?" He says, hazel eyes glimmering. "Nothing, far as I can tell."

Dean looks down, irises green and downtrodden, and he feels Sam turn to him. "Dean," his brother starts, tone forceful. "This is good news."

"How?"

"Because for once, this isn't just another round of demon crap." He glances at Bobby, and the two share a look Dean can't decipher. "I mean, maybe you were saved by one of the good guys, you know?"

"Okay," he cuts in, and Sammy looks relieved. "Say it's true," he compensates, even though he doesn't want it to be true, can't have it be true. "Say there are angels. Then what- there's a God?"

Bobby shrugs. "Biggest money's one 'yeah' right now."

Dean holds back a sarcastic snort, smiling with fake amusement. "I don't know guys," he tells them, walking back to the doorway.

"Okay, okay, look," Sam stutters. "I know your not all choir boy about this stuff, but this is becoming less and less about faith, and more and more about proof."

"Proof?" Dean spits back at him. He ignores Sam's indignant '_yes_!' and continues on. "Proof that there's a God out there, that actually gives a crap about me, personally? I'm sorry, but I'm not buying it!"

Sammy fixes him with an unreadable expression. "Why not?"

Dean looks at Bobby, who's just watching, and then back at his brother. His eyes flicker black and stay that way, feeling cornered. "Because, why me?"

Something seems revealed in the exclamation, and he can't bring himself to look at either of them. He stares at the floor, trembling lightly. "Because, if there is a God out there, why would he give a _crap_ about me?"

"Dean," Sammy sighs, tones comforting and sympathetic, but he doesn't want that.

"Okay, so I've saved some people," he stumbles on. "I figure that makes up for the stealing, and the ditching chicks, but do I really deserve to be saved?" He's shaking his head now, defiantly. "I'm, I'm just a monster," he mumbles, unable to bring himself to acknowledge what he was beyond that.

"Well, apparently, you're important to the man upstairs," Sam says. Dean looks at them both again before shaking his head even more.

"Well, that creeps me out," he whines. "I mean, I don't like getting singled out at birthday parties, much less by God."

"Well, too bad, Dean," Sam tells him, crossing his arms. "Because I think he wants you to strap on your party hat."

He fidgets for a moment, grunting. "What do we know about angels?" He decides, giving in.

Sam and Bobby share another look, the older pulling out a long stack of hardcovers. They thud on the hardwood desk, causing a small storm of dust to rise through the tension thick air. "Start reading."

Dean stares at the books for a hard moment, before pointing his finger at Sam. "You're going to get me some pie," he orders, stomping out of the room in need of a drink and a few moments to forget the world.

* * *

_So, I can't say I'm too sorry about the wait. Mainly because I'll be updating this tomorrow, too. :) _

_Enjoy the Dean and Cas moment, even though I have to write Cas as a jerk for the moment being. Still, same time tomorrow. Kind of. _


	7. Chapter Six

_Sorry for the mishap, guys. Here's the real chapter, hehe._

* * *

The door was unlocked, creaking open at the slightest touch, and it wasn't a good sign. The stepped in, boots thudding on the hardwood floors, guns ready.

"Olivia?" Bobby called out, his own voice echoing back at him through the brown-painted walls. They made it past the entrance hall, only to stop at the bloodied body that served as the living room's centerpiece.

Sam and Dean shared a look, Bobby storming out. The two walked as silently as they could past the deceased hunter's body, onto the small kitchen tucked in the back.

"Salt line," Sam whispered to his brother, nodding towards the doorway, where the white substance served as a border. They stepped over where it had been broken, kneeling at another pile of torn flesh.

Dean grunted, standing, and went over to the back wall. It was stocked with weapons of every kind, and his hands found a tiny machine in the front.

"Olivia was rocking the EMF emitter," he muttered, setting the device down. Sam nodded, looking over at wreckage in the house.

"It's spirit activity," Sam told him, and a quick flash of Dean's eyes proved him right. The room was blurry with a color he couldn't identify, distinct human shapes that weren't there anymore filling the walls with their figure.

He switched back before his eyes could start changing on their own, nodding in confirmation to his brother. "A spirit on steroids," he muttered, looking at what used to be a human being with distaste. "I've never seen a ghost do that to a person."

Sam made a pained expression, only standing when Bobby made his presence know. They both looked to the older, waiting for news.

"I called some hunters nearby," he offered, holding up the flip-phone.

"Good, we could use their help," he said, but Bobby grimaced in response.

"They ain't answering their phones, either," he told them, sliding the phone back in his pocket. Sam crossed his arms, sharing Bobby's scowl.

"Something's up, huh?" He bit his lip, unable to make eye contact with Olivia's mutilated corpse.

"You think?" Bobby snorted, heading out the door, and Sam gave his brother one last look before following.

* * *

They swiftly descended the stairs, the wreckage in the house behind their backs flashing in Dean's head. His eyes were on the blink again but he couldn't force himself to care, taking in gulps of fresh air.

"Yeah, we're at Jed's," he choked out, shoes hitting asphalt. "It's not pretty. He looks even worse than Olivia. What about you?"

"_I checked off Carl Bates and Adams_," Bobby admitted, voice gruff through the speaker. "_They've redecorated- in red_."

Dean gave Sam a thumbs down, his brother only sighing as he slid into the car. "What's going on here, Bobby?" He questioned, staying outside. "Why are all these ghosts suddenly ganking hunters?"

"_I don't know_," the older admitted, almost apologetic. "_But until we find out, you both better get your asses to my place_."

"We're on out way," Dean agreed, sliding into the car. It glided onto the roads, cloudy skies hiding away the stars above.

* * *

The Impala took a place in the gas station, Sam going over to fill the tank. He stood outside in the dark, checking behind him cautiously but finding nothing there.

It filled up quickly enough, and he eyed the convenient store a little ways away. He left his brother to sleep in the car, heading inside the shabby building.

The water from the sink was cold against his fingers as he washed his hands, glancing up at the door. A sudden drop in temperature made him freeze, his breath visible as it passed through his lips.

The mirror above his head started to build up frost, clouding the glass. Sam swiped his hand through the material, jumping when he saw the face of an old friend in the reflection.

"Hi, Sam," Hendrickson spoke, with an easy smirk and sarcasm dripping off every syllable. "It's been a while."

"Hendrickson," Sam stuttered, eyes wide. "Are you, did you-?" His image flickered, providing the younger Winchester with an answer.

"I didn't survive," he said, and his smile dropped with the admittance. "If that's what you're asking."

Sam breathed in deeply, features apologetic and sincere. "I'm sorry," he told the dead agent, truth in every letter.

"I know you are."

"Listen, if we had known that Lilith was coming, we wouldn't have-"

"Let half a dozen innocent people in that police station die in your place," he finished, expression hard to read. "You did this to me," he continued, hateful, and Sam knew he had every right to be. "It was your fault; she was after you, and I paid the price." Sam tried to say something but was cut off, Hendrickson coming forward with a shout. "You left us there to die!"

He slammed Sam into the metal lockers and then into the walls, the mirror shattering as his head connected with the glass. His forehead was bashed against the sink, multiple times, body being thrown down after the outburst.

The ghost came forward but was blasted into dust and sparks, Dean coming out of the explosion holding a rifle with smoke trailing off the ends. He fixed a look at Sam, eyes black, and it took all he had not to sink into unconsciousness, shaking on the stained floors.

* * *

"Dammit, Bobby!" Dean shouts out, gripping the phone with enough force to break it. He dialed again, anxiously, Sam blinking in a daze beside him.

"Hey, how are you feeling, Sammy?" Dean asks, trying not to look at his brother, because he knows he cannot control his eyes right now. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"None," he grumps, forehead red and bruised. "I'll be fine, Dean."

He really does look at him right then, but Sam just kind of winces so he turns away. They hadn't been successful in finding a cure to his demon problem, and his face was just a reminder of their failures.

"Hendrickson?" He questions, voice dubious and hurt, but hell if he was going to tell Sam that.

"Yup," was the reply, sullen and short.

"Why?" Dean presses, the phone still ringing. "What did he want?"

"Revenge, 'cause we got him killed." His brother says it like it's the most obvious answer in the world, and it probably is.

"Sam," he still whines, but he's only interrupted.

"Well, we did," and yes, they did, but it wasn't the time to dwell on that now.

"Okay, stop right there," Dean orders, slamming the phone shut. "Whatever's going on, it's happening to us, right now. I can't get a hold of Bobby, so if you're not thinking answers, don't think at all." Sam opens his mouth but the Dean just kind of hisses at him, actually _hisses_, and the weird thing is that Sam looks like he wants to hiss back.

* * *

It's well into morning when they reach the Singer home, footsteps loud inside the silent house and guns raised. They move through the house, door slamming shut behind them, heartbeats racing.

Dean can see the evidence of spirits through back pupils and he tells Sam just that, holding up a toy ball at the bottom of the stairs that's too bright to be normal. Sam agrees to check outside while he heads up, brain alert.

"Bobby?" Dean calls out to the empty floor, exits closing on their own accord. One door creaks open but he knows that the spirit isn't behind it, freezing when he hears the voice wafting through the air.

"Dean Winchester," it mocks, teasingly. "Still so bossy."

He turns around, vision meeting a teenage girl with shoulder length blond hair and tattered clothes. He face is dirty but pretty all the same, red lips and nice features pulled into an expression he can't name.

"What?" She asks, sounding too familiar for his liking. "You don't recognize me?" The gun goes a little slack in his hands when he realizes, and Meg smiles a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "This is what I looked like before that demon cut off my hair and dressed me like a slut."

"Meg?" He stutters, even though he already knows who she is. Still, she grins even more, moving forward with a calculating gaze.

"Hi."


	8. Chapter Seven

He brings up the gun, aiming it at her head, and she holds her hands in front of her chest in a surrender. "It's okay," she promises, smile creepy on her dirt encrusted face. "I'm not a demon. Unlike some of us, anyway."

He decides to ignore the last part, narrowing his eyes. "You're the girl the demon possessed."

She nods encouragingly, but it appears more like mocking. "Meg Masters," she introduces. "Nice to finally talk to you when I'm not, well, you know," Meg says, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face. "Choking on my own blood."

He stiffens, tightening his grip on the weapon as she moves forward. "It's okay," she coos, raising her eyebrows. "I'm just a college girl. Well, _was_ a college girl," she corrects, frowning just slightly.

Dean gives her a confused look, and Meg goes on, looking at him like she can read his soul. "I was walking home one night and got jumped by all this smoke. Next thing you know I'm a prisoner." She taps her forehead, features sad. "In here."

She steps forward again, but this time, he doesn't try to stop her. "I was awake," Meg tells him, voice rising. "I had to watch while she murdered people."

"I'm sorry," Dean murmurs, lowering the weapon, but Meg only scoffs.

"Oh, yeah?" She questions, words drowned in heavy sarcasm. "So sorry you had me thrown off a building?"

He blanches at the memory, of her screaming for help, body meeting asphalt. "We thought-"

"No, you didn't think!" She shouts, cutting off his protests. "I kept waiting, praying! I was trapped in there, screaming at you to help me! You're supposed to help people, Dean, so why didn't you help me?" He doesn't notice her coming closer, only sees the sadness in her eyes, hears how her voice breaks.

"I'm sorry," he gasps out, and her face contorts into rage.

"Stop saying you're sorry!" The slap across his face is hard, knocking him to the floor. He rolls on the polished wood, looking up at her.

"Meg, please," he gets out, but she kicks him, snarling. She throws away his gun, gazing down on him with an expression he can't place.

"We didn't know!" He shouts, bracing for the hit, but it doesn't come. Instead, she kneels down, tilting her head, leaning closer.

"No," she agrees. "You didn't. You just attacked. Did you ever think there was a girl in here?" He only looks at her, regret written in his eyes. "No, you didn't. You just charged in, slashing and burning. You think you're some kind of hero?"

Black film covers his eyes, and he can see the waves of pure light radiating off her form, features blurred. "No, I don't," he insists, shaking.

"Damn right," Meg says, reaching out for his shirt. He catches sight of a mark on her wrist, branded into skin, but her words take back his attention. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be ridden by months by pure evil, while your family has no idea what happened to you?" She waits for his answer this time, and he chokes it out.

"We did the best we could," he swears, and she snarls again, slamming him against the floor and kicking his stomach.

"It wasn't just me, Dean," she tells him, watching as he splutters on the floor. "I had a sister. A little sister. She worshipped me. You know how little siblings are, right? How they'll do anything for you?" Meg doesn't wait for the answer, already knowing it. "She was never the same after I disappeared. She just..." Meg trails off, gazing at something that wasn't there. "She just got lost."

He only stares up at her, colorless eyes wide. "And when my body turned up in the morgue," Meg continues, shoulders trembling. "Beat up, broken- do you know what that did to her?" He takes the other kick, gasping in pain. "She killed herself! Because of you, Dean! Because all you were thinking about was _your_ family, _your_ revenge and _your_ demons. Just to think, fifty words of Latin a little sooner and I'd still be alive. My baby sister would still be alive," she says, and her voice fades into her throat.

He glares at her, trying to move from the floor, but she kicks him down again. He can't stop the hiss that escapes his lips and she just looks down at him, disgusted. "That blood is on your hands, Dean!"

"You're right," he agrees, seething, but she only inflicts more pain, screaming words of hate and betrayal as if it will fix what he did to her life.

* * *

"So, they're all people we know?" Sam demands, fists clenched. Dean looks at him, watching owlishly.

"Not just know," he corrects, receiving glances. "People we couldn't save." He thinks back briefly, before continuing. "Hey, I saw something on Meg. Did she have a tattoo when she was alive?"

Sam considers the question, shrugging. "Uh, I don't think so."

Dean sets down the gun in his grip, gesturing to his palm. "It was like a kind of mark on her hand, almost like a brand."

Sam's eyes widen, and he nods vigorously. "I saw something like that on Hendrickson," he tells tells them, the gears in his head starting to turn.

Bobby looks at the two of then, curious. "What'd it look like?"

Sam fumbles around for a slip of paper and a pencil, sketching something out. He holds it up to Dean's face, watching as his brother's eyes go over the design.

"That's it," he agrees, and Sam hands the slip of paper to Bobby.

The older hunter nods, voice sounding grim. "I may have seen this before," he tells them, heading over to one of the bookshelves by the wall. He quickly grabs a pile of books, handing the majority of them to Sam.

"We gotta move," he says, glancing over as Dean stands. Sam makes a confused expression, looking to his brother, who only shrugs.

"Where are we going?" Bobby meets his gaze, a single eyebrow raised.

"Somewhere safe, ya idjit."

* * *

The ghosts of the little girls disappear into flakes of dust and lost sparks, wafting into the cold air. Dean's already fuming at not being able to enter the best panic room ever and having to be freed from a devil's trap on the way to boot, and the rush of his blood as he shoots the spirits serves as his one consolation.

His green pupils flicker to black as the girls' giggles recede into silence, nodding as Bobby shouts instructions. He runs from where he's positioned outside the large ring of salt, heading into the kitchen.

Dean's hands fumble through the cupboards, searching anxiously, only stopping when he hears the door slam shut behind him. He snaps his head to the door, wary.

"Dean?" Bobby calls from the other side, voice strained with worry.

"I'm alright!" He calls out. "Just keep working!" Dean continues his search, going through the drawers under the sink, but turns just in time as his vision picks up on flecks of ghostly light.

Hendrickson is standing there, face expressionless, but Dean can only see the raging aura trapped in his body. "Dean," he breathes out, and the demon in question sighs.

"I know," he offers.

"No, you don't."

He decides to stall, words slow and cautious. "It's my fault your dead," he says, backing up slowly as he speaks. "I left you behind. And the minute I heard about that explosion, I realized that I should've known. I should've protected you." His fingers brush against the iron pot behind his back before it is flung away, clanking loudly against the kitchen floor.

Hendrickson's eyes bore into his mind, unimpressed. "Nuh-uh, not so fast," he speaks, and Dean slowly turns to face him. "You think that when you left and Lilith came that we all died in a beautiful blast of white light? If only." His features turn sour. "Forty-five minutes."

Dean looks at him sharply. "What?"

Hendrickson lets a wisp of breath escape through his rough lips. "Over forty-five minutes. Lilith said she wanted to have some fun." Dean only stares at him, disbelief spread across his features. "The secretary was first, remember her? Nancy, the virgin? Lilith flayed Nancy's skin off, piece by piece. Right in front of us." He pause, never breaking their gaze. "Made us watch- Nancy never stopped screaming."

"No."

"I was the last," he insisted. He lets the statement hang there, shoving his hand through Dean's chest, fingers clenching around his heart. "So, tell me how it's fair. Why do you get to be saved from Hell, while I die? Why do you deserve a second chance?" Dean gasps for a breath he can't take, convulsing. "You deserve this. You deserve to become the monster you are, the monster you always have been."

His vision wavers, soul tugging at his gut, and tendrils of smoke start to pour out of his mouth in a desperate attempt to escape. He hears the gunshot and the release of his heart, collapsing on the floor as his very essence continues to travel from his lips.

Dean feels a hand gripping his skin, fingers shaking on his shoulder, something guiding his soul back inside his body. When he can see again the first thing he latches onto is Sam, kneeling down to his level, sporting a bloody nose and crazed eyes. He's breathing heavily like he just ran a marathon, something not quite Sam flickering in his brother's soul, but Dean is too exhausted to think beyond that.

"You okay?" He gets out, staring shamelessly into Dean's black eyes for what feels like the first time, and he can't name the emotions flitting across the splitting expanses of his mind.

"No," Dean groans, letting his brother pull him to his feet. They manage to grab the ingredients Bobby needs, Sam placing them on the table as Dean continues to guard from outside the circle of salt.

The ghosts vanish as Bobby starts chanting, holding the iron bowl high to his chest. He stops as the windows are flung open, vicious winds blowing into the house. Dean grimaces, reaching out, and the windows close once more.

Sam sends him a nod as Bobby begins chanting again, Dean struggling to hold the windows in place. He's found that his telekinesis is constantly in a state of flux, either another part of how he moves or constantly fading just out of reach. It's just enough to keep the wind out, Sam blasting away any ghosts that come.

He barely catches the bowl as Bobby drops it, groaning as Meg attempts to rip out his organs. Dean throws the substance into the fire, watching as it glows blue, the world disappearing into light. When it fades, they run after Bobby, supporting one another as the silence takes over and the spirits are put back to their rest.

* * *

Dean's attempting to trick his mind into the sleep he hasn't had for too long when he hears it; the soft fluttering of wings, gentle thuds against the hardwood floor. His eyes snap open and he rises, the familiar silhouette against the early glow of dawn greeting his sight.

He glances at Sam, fast asleep, before standing quietly. Dean pads over to where Castiel waits for him, blue eyes observing his every move, and stands in front of the angel as he speaks.

"Excellent job with the witnesses," Castiel congratulates, voice deep, and Dean tries to ignore the sudden ache coming from his shoulder, the sensation of his ruined soul pressing against his chest.

He sends Castiel an unimpressed look instead, eyebrows raised. "You knew about all of this?"

The angel nods, almost apologetically. "I was made aware."

His eyes flicker with anger, a sarcastic remark on the tip of his tongue, but the sudden flash of light takes him unaware. He blinks confusedly, Castiel looking at him with an expression that is almost concern.

"You should be careful not to look at me with your true eyes," he suggests. "As your power grows stronger, so does your ability to see beyond the human vision. My true form is, as you know, blinding."

Dean only glares, crossing his arms. "Where was the angelic assistance today?" He demands, voice a harsh whisperer. "You know, I almost got my heart ripped out of my chest."

"But you didn't," Castiel reminds him.

"Well, I thought angels were supposed to be guardians," he continues, tone bitter. "Fluffy wings, halos. Not dicks."

Castiel's mouth turns into a ghost of a smirk, eyes narrowed. "Read the bible." He lets that sink in, before continuing. "Angels are warriors for God. I'm a soldier."

"Then why don't you fight?"

"I'm not here to perch on your shoulder," he tells the demon. "We had larger concerns."

"Concerns?" Dean seethed. "People are getting torn to shreds down here." Castiel looks up at that, and Dean can't read his expression, doesn't want to. "And by the way, while this is happening, where's your boss, huh? If there even _is_ a God."

"There is a God."

"I'm not convinced," he scowls, watching as Castiel breathes in. "What's He waiting for? Genocide? Monsters roaming the Earth? The freaking Apocalypse? At what point does He lift a damn finger to help the poor bastards that are stuck down here?"

"The Lord works-"

"You say 'mysterious ways' and so help me I will kick your ass." Castiel raises his hands up in surrender, frustrated. He looks out the window before turning back at Dean, silent.

"So," he tested out, stepping cautiously forward, keeping the angel in sight. "Then Bobby was right? About the witnesses?" He stops at Castiel's side, watching his every move. "This is some sign of the Apocalypse?"

Castiel nods slightly. "That's why we're here," he says, following Dean with his unnerving blue eyes. "Big things are afoot."

"Do I wanna know what kind of things?"

"I sincerely doubt it," Castiel admits. "But you need to know." He sighs through his nose, beginning. "The rising of the witnesses is one of the sixty-six seals."

"Okay, I'm guessing that's not a show at Sea World."

Castiel continues like he hadn't been interrupted. "Those seals are being broken by Lilith."

Realization flits across Dean's features. "She did the spell, she rose the witnesses."

Castiel nodded, expression stoic. "And not just here," he told his charge. "Twenty other hunters are dead."

"Of course," Dean muttered, tone layered with anger. "She picked victims the hunters couldn't save, so that they would barrel right after us."

"Lilith has a certain sense of humor," he agreed.

"Well, we put those spirits back to rest," Dean tried. Castiel shook his head this time, shoulders sagging.

"The seal is still broken," he told Dean. The hunter gave him a confused look.

"Why break the seal anyway?" Castiel thought for a second.

"Think of the seals as locks on a door," he decided.

"Okay," Dean said, expressing annoyance. "Last one opens, and?"

Castiel got up from where he was leaning against the counter, turning to Dean completely. "Lucifer walks free."

He was silent for a moment, disbelieving. "Lucifer?" Castiel gazed at him, letting him talk. "No, Lucifer is just a story they told at demon Sunday school," he insists. "There's no such thing."

The same shadow of a grin is back, almost gracing his lips but not enough to be more than a slight upturn of Castiel's mouth. "A few days ago," he reminds his charge. "You thought there was no such thing as me."

He wants to say that he still doesn't, that angels don't exist, but the protests don't make it out of his throat. Castiel keeps speaking, waiting for resistance. "Why do you think we're here, walking among you now, for the first time in two thousand years?"

"To stop Lucifer," he whispers, eyes wide.

"It's why we've arrived," he confirms. Dean's fists clench, turning away.

"Well, bang up job so far," he says, words feeling like venom as they come from his mouth. "Stellar work with the witnesses." He leans against the counter, mimicking Castiel moments ago, whistling in mock appreciation. "Very nice."

Castiel seems to be trying to reel in his anger, something that pleases a dark part of Dean. "We did as much as we could," he defended. "There are other battles, other seals. Some we'll win, some we'll loose. This one we lost." Dean only snorts, but inside he's screaming, yelling curses at the angel next to him.

Castiel steps forward, much too close, wearing that same stern expression. "Our numbers are not unlimited," he admonishes, eyes narrowing. "Many of my brothers died in the field this week. You think the armies of Heaven should just follow you around? There's a bigger picture here."

Dean is trying to get a grip on the raging emotions inside of him when Castiel leans forward, hot breath searing against Dean's skin. His eyes switch black, braving through the bright light, and he sneers at the angel.

Castiel only tilts his head, squinting his eyes, and Dean realizes when his intimidation fails. His pupils turn back to green, backing his head a few inches, but Castiel only moves closer. "You should show me some respect," he warns, sharing the same air as Dean, near enough to count the freckles spread across his cheeks. "I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in."

He leaves Dean in the blink of an eye, wings flying him away, abandoning Dean to his own thoughts.


	9. Chapter Eight

_Happy Croatoan Day!_

* * *

"Move it, buddy," a voice shot out, words laced with irritation. Dean gave a start, jerking from his place on the wooden bench.

"What?" He groaned, eyes blinking into the too bright light. A slight wind ghosted over his skin, rustling the cluster of trees.

"You can't sleep here," the officer said, tone gruff. Dean squinted up at him, mind reeling.

"Uh, okay," he murmured, confused. "Sleep where?"

"Anywhere but here," he replied, leaving Dean to get up. He did, sitting up on the blue painted bench, looking around.

Colorful shops lined the freshly asphalted streets, wisps of white clouds trailing the sky. Dean's eyes flickered in frustration, seeing the glow of peoples' souls bubbling under their skin.

He sighed, reaching into his jacket. Fingers pulled out his journal, setting it aside as he grasped for his phone. Dean flipped it open, only to find he had no signal. He furrowed his eyebrows, holding it up to the air, having it wield the same results. Groaning, he shoved it back into his pocket, dread setting in his bones.

Sighing once more, he got up, grabbing his journal and jacket along the way. Dean made his way to the restaurant on the other side of the street, pulling a pair of sunglasses over his eyes.

A bell jingled overhead as the door opened, the smell of coffee wafting through the room. Talking came from all over, taking up the joint, creating a small hum of noise. He could see the pure energy in all the cracks where people weren't, and he stood in the entrance for a brief moment, staring on in wonder.

He finally went to the counter, taking a seat. Dean winced just slightly, rubbing his throbbing temples. His eyes found the man beside him, soul familiar under a black film. "Hey," he got out. "Where the hell am I?"

The man fixed him with a quizzical look, features young. "Jay Bird's diner?" He offered, but Dean shook his head.

"Yeah, thanks," he grit out, unimpressed. "I meant, like, city and state."

The man's eyebrows rose, life squirming under skin. "Lawrence, Kansas," he replied, voice cautious. Dean huffed, heart sinking.

"Lawrence," he grumped, glaring at the counter top. "Of course."

"You alright?" The man asked, actually sounding concerned. Dean fixed his gaze on him, tracing the waves of his life force, having half a mind to take off the tacky glasses and scare him off.

He finally decided against it, looking away. "Yeah," Dean answered, lying through his teeth. Why did his head hurt so much? "Tough night."

The man nodded, waving over one of the servers. "Hey," he yelled. "Coffee over here, Reg." Dean grunted in approval, pulling out his phone once more as he waited.

"Know anywhere I can get reception on this thing?" He wondered, looking at the lack of bars on the screen. The man glanced over, scoffing.

"The _U.S.S. Enterprise_?" He answered, amused. Dean scowled, slipping the device back in his pocket.

A steaming mug of coffee was placed in front of him, Dean meeting the eyes of the server. Looking him over, he couldn't stop from snorting.

"Nice threads," he commented, taking a sip of the drink. "You do know that Sunny and Cher broke up, right?"

The man gives him a strange look, sounding shocked. "Sunny and Cher broke up?"

Dean stares at him, getting the feeling that something is off, met by dumbfounded expressions. The server went to fill out more orders, leaving Dean to whatever was going on.

A song rumbled overhead, Dean observing the other people in the diner. They all sported old-fashioned clothes and out-dated hairstyles, and the dread settled in deeper.

A voice entered the room, crashing into his ears. "Hey, Winchester!" It yelled, belonging to an elderly man dressed in all beige. Dean watched as he completely ignored the demon, heading over instead to the same guy beside him.

"Son of a bitch!" He exclaimed, clapping the man on the back. "How're doing, corporal?"

"Hey, Mr D," he answered, smiling from ear to ear.

"I heard you were back," the older mused, sharing the same grin.

"Yeah," he admitted. "For a little while now." The older leaned against the counter, while Dean just watched on, dazed.

"Well, it's good to see you, John," he said, and Dean could here the puzzle pieces clicking into place. He pulled off his sunglasses, green flooding back into his irises, staring at the man in a mix of awe and horror.

"Dad?" He rasped, voice weak. They didn't pay him any attention, ears deaf to his revelation.

"Well, say hello to your old man for me," the older concluded, starting to head off, and John shot his own farewell. He eventually noticed Dean's stare, unyielding, and frowned.

"Do we know each other?" He asked, annoyed. Dean moved his lips in a silent answer for a second, at loss for what to say.

"Guess not," he managed, forcing the mug to his mouth. John sighed a little through his nose, standing.

"Take care, pal," he said, and Dean watched as his father left him again.

* * *

"What is this?" He choked out, eyes betrayed and barely contained. Castiel just looked at him, too close for comfort, appearing almost pitying.

"What does it look like?" Dean glared under Castiel's scrutinizing eyes, anger growing by the second.

"Is it real?"

"Very." He nearly growled, shoulder aching like it always did when the other was nearby, demon threatening to break out of his skin.

"Okay," he spat out. "So, what exactly is the-" He stopped, rubbing his temples. "Just, how did I get here?"

Castiel looked to the side, pursing his lips. "Time is fluid, Dean," he finally answered. "It's not easy, but we can bend it on occasion."

Dean crossed his arms, scowling. "Well, bend it back," he said, irritated. "Or at least tell me what the hell I'm doing here."

"I told you," Castiel replied, voice even. "You have to stop it."

Dean's mind flashed back to talks in dark motels, requests that only tangled his sense further. "Stop what?" He urged, fists clenched. "What, is there something nasty after my dad?"

Tired screeched in the distance, horns blaring, and Dean quickly turned to the commotion. He went to face the angel again, only to find he was alone.

"Oh, come on," he groaned, irises disappearing into darkness. Dean punched the wall, heading off into the direction his dad had gone.

* * *

He watched John inspect the van behind glasses, internally wincing. "That's not the one you want," he called out, seeing his dad turn.

"You following me?" He questioned, tone bordering on threatening, and Dean shook his head.

"No, no," he lied, leaning on one of the other cars. "I was just passing by." He straightened up as John came over, a habit that hasn't quite died. "I never got to thank you for that cup of coffee this morning. I was a little out of it."

"More than a little," his dad said, buying the fib with grin. Dean reciprocated the gesture.

"Let me repay the favor," he said, patting the hood of the vehicle behind him. "This is the car you want."

"Oh, yeah?" John questioned, eyes never straying off his own. "You know something about cars?"

"Yeah," he said, giving a genuine smile this time, pride in his voice. "My dad taught me everything I know." At John's slowly diminishing grin, he hurried on. "And this, _this_ is a good car."

He pulled up the top as John came around, showing him the engine. "Three twenty-seven four barrel, two seventy-five horses," he explained. "A little TLC, this thing is cherry," Dean finished, John looking on with wonder.

"You know, man," John said, sounding wistful. "You're right."

Dean knew he was. "What're you buying that thing for?" He asked, pointing to the van.

"Kind of promised someone I would," John admitted with a grimace.

"Over a '67 Chevy?" Dean barked out a laugh, John joining. "I mean, c'mon, this is the car of a lifetime. Trust me, this baby's still gonna be badass when she's forty."

He seemed to consider something for a while, before finally giving over. "John Winchester," he introduced, stretching out a hand. "Thanks."

"Dean van Halen," he replied, taking the hand. John's grip wasn't a strong as it should've been, a ghost of his older version. "And thank _you_."

John gave him a nod, going over to inspect the inside. Dean followed, mind grasping for things to say. "I was in pretty rough shape this morning, huh?" He decided, cautious.

"No kidding," his dad snorted, running his fingers against the upholstery.

"I've been hung over before, but man," he whistled, choosing the next couple sentences carefully. "I was getting chills in that diner. You didn't happen to feel any cold spots, did you?"

"Nope," John chirped, meeting him on the other side. Dean hummed in agreement, continuing.

"I swear I smelled something weird, too, you know? Like rotten eggs." When John didn't answer, he pressed on. "You didn't happen to smell any sulfur, by chance?"

John's smile was visibly strained when he answered. "No," he told his son, eyes sparkling in the light rays of the afternoon sun. Dean tried his luck, dropping the act.

"Have there been any cattle mutilations in town?" John held up a hand.

"Okay, mister, stop it." Dean consented, wincing at how the words matched the angel's who got him here in the first place.

"Yeah, if only I knew what to stop," he murmured, downcast. He met John's puzzled stare. "Listen, you watch our for yourself, okay?"

His dad didn't look like he really knew what to do with that, soul frenzied beneath his face. "Yeah, sure," he decided, sounding more than a little freaked out, but he didn't look anymore relieved when Dean departed.

* * *

He watched his parents through the window of the diner, Mary looking beautiful in her sudden youth. His throat felt dry, legs weak, whispered words drifting off into the cold air.

"Sammy, wherever you are," he murmured, pained and joyed simultaneously. "Mom is a babe." He sighed. "I'm going to hell."

_Again_.

He stood there, leaning against the wall, lost in thought. It wasn't until a hand came up to his arm, slender fingers surprisingly strong, that he came out of the daze.

"Why are you following us?" Mary hissed in his ear, bringing him down. His eyes flashed in irritation and shock, rolling out of the way before she could place a kick.

She lunged for him again but he was ready, turning her around and pining her to the wall. His irises refused to convert back, switching madly, essence trying to reach out of his lips.

"You've been trailing us since we left the house," Mary accused, struggling, and he felt a lash of guilt. He caught John from the cracks in the blinds, sitting alone at the table, and the emotion worsened.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he grunted, pupils finally settling. If there was one thing he didn't need, it was for his parents to find out about _that_.

"Oh, really?" Mary all but sneered, and the action caught him off guard. She wormed free, lunging again, only to get pinned back down.

"How about we talk about this?" He offered, trying to be as gentle as possible. He was about to continue until his gaze found her arm, silver charm bracelet dangling on her wrist with a collection of different wards.

He let the grip slacken, slowly backing away, and she turned to face him with mild surprise. "Are you a hunter?" He asked, backing up, and she barely managed an answer.

* * *

"So, you're a hunter?" He questioned, voice gruff and disbelieving.

"Yes, sir," Dean replied, tone even, back straightening on its own accord. His grandfather considered him with wise old eyes, thinking.

"Well, tell me something, if you're a hunter," Samuel got out, testing. "You kill vampires with wooden stakes or silver?"

"Neither," he answered. "You cut their heads off." He saw Mary smirk in the corner of his eyes, and he couldn't help but pick up on the action. "So, did I past your test?"

"Yep," he grumbled, putting down the book in his hands. "Now get outta my house."

"Dad!"

"I don't like other hunters, Dean," he said, pointedly ignoring his daughter. "Don't want their help, don't want them around my family."

The demon gave a small nod, opening his mouth to speak, but another voice beat him to it. "Knock it off, Samuel," the woman behind him admonished, blue eyes sparkling like her daughter's, and this was suddenly too much.

"He's a hunter!"

"Who passed your little pop quiz," she reasoned. "And who I'm now inviting over to dinner." She looked him up and down, cocking her head. "You hungry?"

"Starving," he admitted, and she grinned.

"Good." She offered a hand to shake. "I'm Deanna," she introduced, grip much tighter than his father's. "You've met my husband Samuel. Now go wash up." She walked off to the kitchen, leaving Dean with an amused expression.

"Samuel and Deanna?" He mused, jabbing a thumb in the other Campbell's direction, and Mary nodded. "Really."

It was a while until they were seated for dinner, several platters of food placed out, and he did his part to act like he was eating. He didn't quite trust that it wasn't injected with holy water, and after his last incident with that substance (thanks, Bobby) it wasn't a chance he wanted to take.

"First time in Lawrence, Dean?" Deanna asked, all warm smiles and welcoming voice, and he answered as honestly as he could.

"Well," he hesitated. "Been a while. Things sure have changed, I think."

She smiled, Mary holding in a snicker. He toyed a bit with his silver fork, feeling out of place.

"You working a job?" Samuel questioned, scowling. He held the glass of wine to his lips, pretending to take a sip, before answering.

"Yeah, maybe." His grandfather didn't look pleased at the reply, scowling even further.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't trust other hunters either, Samuel."

The other females stayed quiet, anxiety in the air, but the tension started to dissipate at Samuel's grin. He stayed that way for a moment, eyebrows quirked, expression cocky and slightly approving.

"Hey, uh," Mary started, curiosity in her tone. "So, why were you following me and John?"

"Mm," he hummed, placing the utensil down. "I thought something was after your, uh, your boyfriend." At Mary's panicked look, he hurried on. "But I don't think that anymore."

"John Winchester," Deanna mused, unimpressed. "Mixing it up with spirits. Can you imagine?" He felt a shot of anger register in his head, keeping his eyes downward just in case.

"I saw that," Mary accused her dad, sharing the emotion. He looked up, shrugging.

"What?"

"That, that sour lemon look," she clarified, crossing her arms. He sighed, putting down his glass.

"Now, hold on," he compensated, raising his palms in mock surrender. "John's a really nice, uh," he paused, thinking. "A really nice naïve civilian."

She barked out a humorless laugh, arms still folded over her chest. "So, what," she started. "You'd rather me be like a guy like this?" She asked, jerking her head at Dean, who suddenly felt very cornered.

"What?" He choked out. "No, no." That was not a discussion he needed to be a part of.

"Mary, of course not," Samuel reassured. "It's just that-"

"That's enough," Deanna interrupted, annoyed. "We have company." That seemed to quiet them both, darkening the atmosphere, so he tried for more small talk.

"What about you, Sam?" He offered. "You working a job?"

"Might be." Mary sighed, rolling her eyes.

"He's working a job on the Whiteshire farm," she informed him, tapping her fingers against the patterned table cloth.

"Whiteshire," he muttered, frowning. "Why does that name sound so familiar to me?"

"It's been all over the papers," Samuel told him, draping an arm across his chair. "Tom Whiteshire, got tangled up in a combine a few towns over."

"That kind of thing happens," Dean said, not getting the importance of the case.

"Except, why was he on it in the first place? When his crops are all dead?"

Dean thought about his answer. "Demonic omens?" He offered, words sounding bitter on his tongue.

"Well, that's what I gotta find out," Samuel said, sighing. Dean nodded in understanding, thinking.

"What about the other towns?" He wondered. "Find anything on the web?" At the blank looks he received, the demon hastily continued. "I mean, the web of information that you have assembled?"

"Electrical storms, maybe," Deanna answered, not noticing his sudden discomfort. "The weather graphs should be here on Friday."

"By mail?"

"No," Samuel spoke up, reply thick with sarcasm. "We hired a jetliner to fly them here to us overnight." Dean let out a shaky laugh, feeling a little sick.

"You knew, it sounds to me like we might be hunting the same thing," he reasoned, leaning forward on his elbows. "If we go in there in numbers, we'll take care of this real quick."

Samuel didn't look impressed. "What part of 'we work alone' do you not understand, son?" Dean struggled for what to say. He settled on hurrying off to where the bathroom was, trying to hide his face, and all the while wishing for a hunt that wouldn't hit so close to home.


	10. Chapter Nine

_Sorry about the late update. I'll try to make the next one sooner. Enjoy!_

* * *

The door opened before he could knock, a pair of bright green eyes behind it. Samuel stared at the younger hunter, both dressed undercover as priests at the haunted farm.

Dean recovered quickly, giving his grandfather a grin. "Father."

"I see you beat me here," Samuel remarked, an underlying threatening tone to his voice.

Dean nodded agreeably, stepping outside of the doorway to reveal the blonde behind him. "The Lord is funny that way." He stood next to Samuel, still wearing the same grin. "Beth Whitshire, this is my associate, our senior priest, Father Cheney."

Samuel forced his features into something more reassuring than deadly, turning to the woman. "Please accept our deepest condolences."

"Thank you," she told him, sniffing miserably. Her arms crossed, shoulders leaning on the doorframe.

"Ms Whitshire was telling me about Tom," Dean told him. "And how normal and ordinary things were on the day before his death."

"I see," Samuel murmured. He glanced at Beth's bright blue irises. "So you didn't see _anything_ unusual, ma'am?"

Her tone was unimpressed when she spoke. "You mean, like my husband's guts fertilizing the back forty?" The older Winchester opened his mouth and closed it again, at loss.

Dean raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Excuse me," he chirped, patting his grandfather on the shoulder before walking off the porch.

He headed to where his mother was, standing straight and interrogating a teenager. Dean took a place next to her, sending a small nod of acknowledgment.

"Charlie," she started, voice soft. "Would you like to tell the Father here what you just told me?"

Charlie didn't look like he did, but he spoke nonetheless. "Dad drank sometimes," he muttered, and Dean knew the feeling. "Sometimes, he got rough with mom."

"And that's when the stranger came?"

He shook his head anxiously, looking cornered. "I just thought he was some Bible-thumper, like you all. He showed up 'bout a week ago."

Dean spoke up, narrowing his eyes. "Saying what?"

"He asked me if I wanted the beatings to stop." Charlie took a shaky breath, faltering. "I just thought he was crazy, I didn't think-" another pause. "And then the next thing I know, Dad was dead." Dean frowned, thinking. "Am I going to jail?"

"You didn't do this, Charlie," Mary promised, locks of hair framing her face. "

"Uh," Dean started. "Did the stranger want anything in return?"

"He didn't want anything," the teen answered.

"C'mon, Chuck," the demon urged. "He wasn't just handing out freebies, now was he?"

Charlie shrugged. "He did say something about calling in ten years from now, that maybe he'd want something then."

He closed his eyes as they flashed, putting a hand over his face. Mary was the one who continued for him. "Something like what?"

"I don't know, okay?" Annoyance flickered over his features. "Look, I told you he was nuts."

Dean finally opened his eyes, taking his mother by the elbow. He lead her a little ways away, expression terse.

"What do you think?" She asked him, eyebrows furrowed.

"I think he just pimped his soul to a demon, and doesn't even know it." Images of hellhounds and snatches of blood-curdling screams invaded his mind for the barest of seconds, putting a grimace on his face.

Mary sighed, going back to the teenager. "Charlie, do you remember what the stranger looked like?"

He seemed a little caught off guard. "Uh, yeah," Charlie replied. "He's about 5'10'', white. He was kinda normal looking, really."

"Anything else?" She questioned, voice gentle.

He seemed to struggle to find the words. "There _was_ one more thing."

"What?" Dean barked out.

"It's just, the light hit his eyes in a weird way, and... for a moment, I coulda sworn-"

"What?" Dean pressed. "They were black? Red, maybe?"

"No," Charlie answered, confused. "They were yellow."

* * *

Dean grabbed a nearby knife and a banana, peeling it open. His sunglasses were back on, hiding the flickering pupils behind the shades.

"What do you say we just slow down and talk about this?" Dean sliced the fruit evenly, knife flashing quickly.

"There's nothing to talk about," he grunted out.

"Except your saying it's a demon," Samuel pointed out. "And none of us has ever heard of a demon with yellow eyes."

Dean straightened, facing his grandfather. "Well, I have," he replied. "This thing killed my family."

"Just calm down, son."

Dean fastened a glare at the older, teeth gritting against eachother. "You don't get it, do you? You are in danger. We are _all_ in danger. In fact, you need to get yourself someplace safe."

"Not until we know what we're dealing with here," he said, stubborn.

"Sam's right, Dean," Deanna told him, coming into the room. "Could be a demon, could be a shifter, could be any number of things."

"I know what this thing is," he growled out. "And I'm gonna kill it. That's all the talking I need to do."

He had to. What had Castiel told him? _Stop it_. Well, this was his chance to. This was his chance to stop the murder of his mom, to save what had become of his parents.

Samuel didn't share the sentiment. "You're just gonna kill a demon? How?"

"There's a hunter named Daniel Elkins," Dean answered. "He lives in Colorado." He pointed a spot on the map sprawled out on the desk, confidence oozing from his voice. "He has Colt's gun. _The_ Colt."

Samuel scoffed, walking over and leaning against the table. "Yeah, I've heard of the Colt," he said. "I used to tell it to Mary as a bedtime story."

"Well," he told them. "It's real."

His grandparents shared a skeptical look, disbelieving. Samuel eventually spoke up. "Okay, so say that it is real," he compensated, if only for a moment. "You got, what, some kind of a crystal ball telling you where this demon is supposed to be?"

His eyes strayed on black much too long, mouth twitching and twisting into a morbid smile. "I suppose I do," he answered.

Samuel looked a bit concerned at that, but Dean wasn't paying attention anymore. He rested his elbows on the wooden desk, putting his hands to his temples, and concentrated.

Dean had no idea if what he was trying to do would work, just a mere theory. At the farm, he had felt a kind of change in atmosphere; nothing that could be described in words, just a different way he had viewed the scene. And when he slipped out of his human vision, the feeling in his gut had been true- there had been a demon there, and he had sensed it.

Maybe if he tried, really tried, Dean would be able to feel that again. Would be able to follow that feeling. The difference, the change left by demons, the thing he felt near that diner and after demonic hunts and with Sam-

_Sam?_ No. That wasn't right. He needed to concentrate harder.

Something whipped through his head, gliding over his thoughts. "Halleyville?" He choked out, loosing his concentration immediately.

Samuel stared. "Yeah, it's about three miles from here. What about it?"

He looked at his grandfather, slipping off his glasses. "That's where the yellow-eyed demon is going to strike."

"What?" He asked, incredulous. "How can you possibly think that?"

Dean sighed, testing the lie on his tongue. "I can, uh, I can see the future."

Samuel didn't seem to buy it, and Dean didn't blame him. "The future," he repeated. "If you can see the future, then why-"

"It only works in certain situations. I can't control it all the time." The other snorted, Deanna looking on amusedly.

"Looks like you controlled it pretty well back there," Samuel remarked. "What, you can only 'see into the future' when wearing this cheap piece of crap?" He held up the discarded sunglasses teasingly, Dean letting out a shaky laugh.

"Listen," he said, taking the shades slowly from Samuel's hands. "I know you guys think I'm crazy."

The older hunter interrupted him with a snort. "You seem like a really nice kid Dean, but yeah, you're crazy."

"Yeah, maybe," Dean agreed. "But I know where this bastard's gonna be, and I'm gonna stop it, once and for all."

He picked up his jacket, thrown in a heap at the end of the desk. Dean then walked through the other room, Mary spying him before he spoke.

His mother looked absolutely beautiful as she looked up at him, all sparkling irises and rich lips, golden curls and big dimples. His heart ached in ways it only did for Sammy and Bobby, just seeing her sitting there, being the most gorgeous woman in the world.

His voice caught in his throat a little, snagging along the turmoil of melancholy and nostalgia. "I'm shoving off," he told her. "I just wanted to say bye."

"Really?" She asked, getting up from the recliner she had been sitting in. "So soon?"

"Yeah," he confirmed, watching as Mary adjusted her blouse. "I got a job to do." He breathed in. "Hey, I just wanted to tell you, for what it's worth... um. It, it doesn't matter what your dad thinks. I like that John kid."

She laughed. "You do?"

"Yeah," he admitted, sharing the chuckle. "I think you two are meant to be. Hell, I'm depending on it."

"What?"

"Nothing," he rushed. "Um- can I ask you a question?" She considered, nodding. "What's he like, John?"

Mary slid her hands into her pockets, swaying slightly on her feet. "Why do you ask?"

Dean thought about it. "Just curious," he decided.

She shrugged. "I dunno, uh..." Mary's gaze traveled downwards. "He's sweet. Kind." He made a face, and she continued. "Even after the war, after everything, he still believes in "happily ever after," you know? He's everything a hunter isn't."

He can't help the small smile that breaks out on his lips. She looks up suddenly, unsure. "Can I tell you something?"

Dean's a little shocked, but catches on. "Sure."

"He's gonna ask me to marry him," she revealed. "Tomorrow, I think." She giggled, blushing.

"Yeah?" He said.

"Yeah," she echoed. "Oh, Dad's gonna explode. But- but I don't care. I'll run away if I have to. I just, I love John. And..."

He tilted his head. "And what?"

"And I wanna get out." She held him in her gaze, vulnerable. "This job, this life, I hate it. I want a family. I wanna be safe." Mary let it set in, just for a second. "And you know what the worst thing could happen? The very worst thing? It's for my children to be raised into this, just like I was. Well, I won't let it happen."

He nodded, eyes watering. "Yeah."

She looked at him sympathetically. "Hey," she said, soft. "You okay?"

"What?" He replied. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He was always fine. "Say, uh, Mary, can I tell you something, too?"

"Of course."

"Even if this sounds really weird, will you promise me that you will remember?" She murmured yes, looking at him with a curious glint in her eyes. "On November 2, 1983... don't get out of bed." He pressed on, even as Mary's face lost it's cheer. "No matter what you hear or where you see, promise me you won't get out of bed."

The stared at one another for the longest amount of time, deadly seriously written on his features. She finally consenting, swallowing. "Okay."

"Okay." He ran a hand over his face, trying to discreetly wipe away the tears. "Okay." Dean turned on his heel, heading out the door with as much reserve as he could muster.


	11. Chapter Ten

His bright green eyes watched the road, focused on the borrowed car as it glided across the asphalt. Dean didn't notice Castiel until it was too late, jumping up with a sharp intake of breath.

The angel didn't bother to look at him, trenchcoat ruffled slightly. Dean huffed, scowl creeping up on his features. "So, what, God's my co-pilot? It that it?"

All he received was an odd look, a frown appearing on Castiel's face. Dean glared, irises disappearing into black. "Tell me something- Sam would've wanted into this. Why not bring _him_ back?"

"You had to do this alone, Dean," Castiel answered, voice quiet. His fingers tapped against the wheel, irritated.

"And you don't care that he's tearing up the future looking for me right now?" He questioned. The angel sighed, staring into the review mirror, squinting as he answered.

"Sam is not looking for you." Dean didn't know what that meant and didn't really want to, burying the harsh words in the back of his throat.

"Alright," he started out, hesitating. "If I do this for you then the family curse breaks, right? Mom and Dad live happily ever after, Sam and I grow up playing little league and chasing tail?"

Castiel replied with another question. "You do realize that if you alter the past, you, your father and Sam don't become hunters? And all those people you saved, they'll die."

The thought flitted across the surface of his mind, digging deep into the cracks and burrowing into his conscience. "I realize."

"And you don't care?"

He glanced at the angel, pupils still lost to darkness. "Oh, I care," he answered. "I care a lot." Castiel's gaze was kind but the tiniest disappointed, his arm burning where the angel has raised him from perdition. "But these are my parents. I'm not gonna let them die again."

Castiel left him in a flurry of wings, and that was that.

* * *

The lock clicked underneath his strong fingers, safe door creaking open. His attention focused on the polished gun sitting on the top shelf, hand reaching to take it out.

Dean looked down at the Colt in his grip, newer than it had been the last time he had held it. He froze at the sound of a voice, followed by the noise of a shotgun being cocked.

"Drop the gun," the man ordered, speaking from behind. "Be on your way."

He slowly got up from the kneeling position, placing the gun on the safe. In a flash, he snatched it again, turning around and aiming it at the hunter.

"Can't do it, Daniel," he warned, keeping his face calm and irises green. The man didn't betray his shock, but he could almost smell the fear.

"Who the hell are you?" Daniel barked out, fingers tightening on the trigger.

"A hunter, just like yourself," he replied.

"Thief is more like it," he retorted.

"I just need it for a few days."

"Not gonna happen, mister." Dean's shoulders stiffened, muscles tense.

"Look, I have a chance to save my family's lives," he said, and a trickle of desperation sunk into the words. "My _family_. But I need this gun to do it. So if you want to stop me, kill me."

He pointed it to the air, slowly backing to the door. His feet walked around Daniel, each move cautious. The other hunter followed him with his gun, eyes observant and body rigid.

He made it to the doorway, looking back at Daniel. The man eventually lowered the shotgun, features softening.

"There's some hunters in Lawrence," Dean told him. "The Campbells."

"Never heard of them," he grumbled out.

"That's where she'll be," Dean continued, sending him a nod. Daniel reciprocated the gesture, watching as Dean strode off.

It was a while until he reached the house, rushing through the doors at the sound of screams. He was greeted with the sight of his mother being held up by her neck, intense yellow eyes focusing on him a second later.

Dean held the Colt in his hands, gaze sweeping over the house. It was a small modest place, well-lit and homey. His grandfather struggled against the wall, a petite raven-haired woman staring at the spectacle with horror.

Azazel looked at him, eyebrows raising as he held Mary. "Oh, a friend. What brings you here?"

He held up the Colt, aiming it at the other demon. Those same eyebrows furrowed, his grandfather gasping for breath. Dean switched his attention to the older hunter, and with a flicker of his wrist the man was released.

Azazel paid him no mind, gripping Mary tighter. "Where did you get that gun?" He questioned. Samuel started to rise behind the yellow-eyed monster, stepping with caution.

"Let her go!" Dean barked out, sneering. His broken soul raged against his body, pounding against the human skin.

The other ignored the demand, smirking slightly through the confusion written over his face. "Oh, you're different," Azazel cooed, snapping his fingers. Samuel was thrown back against the floor, Dean itching to help but standing his ground. "Didn't spend as much time as most down there, but rotted all the sane. Must have been a particularly dark experience, really, to have purged a soul so... righteous."

Dean growled, the action inhuman and strange to his ears. Azazel grinned even further, wisps of black escaping through his mouth, and his flimsy vessel dropped to the ground.

Dean let his arms lower, defeat heavy on his shoulders, the last trace of Azazel leaving through the vent.

* * *

"Mary, what else did he say to you?" The blonde looked at him in slight irritation, expression scarred.

"I already told you," she insisted. "Just that he liked me." She glanced up at him. "What did he mean by that?"

Before Dean was forced to answer Samuel came out through the doors, looking worse for wear. "Liddy's a strong kid, she'll be fine," he told them, focusing on his daughter. "Are you okay?"

"No, Dad, I'm far from okay. Can we go now?" She rushed to the car, blinking tears out of her eyes, and they both watched he go.

Samuel turned to him, arms crossing. "Good job there, son."

"I missed the shot," he muttered. The hunter only looked at him, frowning.

"Take the compliment, Dean. I'm saying I was wrong about you." The demon stayed silent, so his grandfather pressed on. "We need to talk alone."

"Agreed."

* * *

Dean paced the length of the room, close to pulling out his hair in frustration. Samuel only watched, taking his time to speak.

"What did that demon mean when he said you spent some time 'down there'?" Dean came to an abrupt halt, looking his grandfather dead in the eyes.

"Nothing important."

"Sure sounds important." He huffed, taking a seat across from the man.

"What do you think it means?" He shot back, and Samuel regarded him with an emotion he couldn't place.

It was a moment until he spoke. "Hell." At Dean's nod, his jaw dropped a centimeter, surprise barely noticeable but still there. "You've been to Hell?"

"Yes." He looked down at the fresh oak table, thinking back to darker times. "I have."

"Want to tell me why?"

"No, not really." At the glare he received, Dean continued. "I did some bad things back then. We all do. But I cleaned my act, now. I'm better." The lie was as much as he could muster up, trying to morph his face to match the words.

He couldn't tell if Samuel bought it. "Okay," he started. "How about all the other things he mentioned?"

Dean tried to play it stupid, not lifting his gaze. "What other things?"

Samuel sent him an unimpressed look. "When the son of a bitch was talking about your soul being purged, when he regarded you as a friend. Can you tell me about any of those?"

Dean could tell where this was going. "I really have no clue what he was going on about."

Samuel shrugged, but his demeanor was venomous. "Of course, of course." He let that hang for a while, the statement lift off his tongue and drift into the air. "Well, how about when you displayed some telekinesis back there?"

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying, it's awfully strange that one second you're tangling with Lucifer, and then the next you're up here. You know what kind of creature can do that?"

Dean met his hard stare with one of his own. "There's a perfectly reasonable explanation."

"You're right," Samuel replied. "And we both know what it is." Dean growled again, softer, clenching his fists.

"Listen," he gritted out. "Whatever you make think, it isn't important. What _is_ important is that if we don't do anything, Mary's going to die."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," he said. "Now, we could argue about this for as long as you want, but your daughter's life is in danger. I am on your side."

Samuel seemed to consider it for a moment, and he could see the gears turning in his head. He finally gave. "What do you have?"

Dean closed his eyes, concentrating. This flickered black underneath his eyelids, feverish and cold.

Something started to scream at him, senses flailing. His eyes snapped open, vision adjusting, and he saw what was lurking under his grandfather's skin.

Samuel grinned at him, pupils rusting into gold. He was knocked back, telekinesis stronger than anything he did to try and break through. Dean could only glare, hissing at the monster he killed too long ago.

Azazel strode towards his place on the floor, kneeling down in front of Dean. "Hello, again," he nearly purred, hot breath hitting Dean's cheek. Shivers ran down the younger's spine, instincts blaring at him to run.

"Fuck off," Dean bit back, spitting in his face, but the yellow-eyed demon only laughed.

"You know, I've been trying to figure out what makes you so _special_," he droned. "You're too different. Us demons, well, you know how it is, stealing flimsy meat-suits here and there. But _you_... you're not possessing any human, are you?"

Dean kept quiet, and Azazel laughed louder. "No, you're not. It's like the remainders of your broken soul are ingrained into that body. Yes. Whoever turned you, well, they must've put in something special. Makes you strange." He leaned in closer, destroying all concepts of space. "Makes you powerful. I could use that power, you know."

"Is there a point to this?" Dean spat. Azazel hummed cheerfully, positively beaming.

"You have somewhere better to be? I thought you came here, just to kill little ol' me." His hand suddenly lashed out, gripping hard onto Dean's shoulder. His jacket was pulled back and his shirt was torn, revealing Castiel's handprint.

"Oh ho ho!" He exclaimed. "Now that, that is interesting. Only one thing can make a mark that deep, that raw. Can't you see it?" Dean did, watching the faint glow that came off the burn, only visible with through his demon eyes. "You must have friends in high places. Well, explains how you got out, I suppose. Explains a whole lot."

He took the bait, interest sparking. "Like what?"

"Well," he dragged on. "What would be the fun in telling you? Really, if this is your idea of killing someone, you're doing a terrible job."

Dean hissed at him, moving forward as far as his invisible bonds would allow it, and Azazel actually flinched. "Why are you here? What do you want with these peoples' souls?"

The older demon laughed again, louder this time, just the tiniest strained. "I don't want the souls," he informed Dean. "I want the children."

"What?"

He tutted, shaking his head. "I forgot how dim-witted people can be. Well, Dean, I'm looking to make a new generation, and I need children to do it. Children from capable people. People like your mother."

"What could she possibly do to help you?"

"Oh, please," Azazel sighed. He pulled John's journal out from his jacket, stolen from Dean. "I can read, you know. And there's some interesting things in here, there really is. A full catalogue on every beast known to man. If that's the father's doing, I wonder what the kids will grow up to."

"Stay away from my family."

"Now, now, there's no need to panic. Trust me, you're safe. Wouldn't want to rotten something so perfect as yourself." He showed off a full array of sparkling teeth, eyes deceiving. "Perhaps you have a sis? Or a bro?" He seemed to gather something from Dean's face, turning even more gleeful. "Oh, that's terrific. That means it all worked out. After all, that's why I'm here."

He started to fight harder against the force pushing him down, trying to draw some sort of power hiding in his gut. He caught Deanna's head poking through the far doorway, eyes widening as she caught sight of them both.

He didn't know her thoughts about this, but aimed another question at Azazel nonetheless. "Why make the deals, anyway? Why not just take their souls?"

"I need permission," he answered, still wearing that same smirk. "I need to be invited into their houses. I know, I know, the red tape will drive you nuts- but in ten short years, it'll be worth it. 'Cause you know what I'll do to your sibling? I'm gonna stand over their crib and I'm gonna bleed into their mouth. Demon blood is better than ovaltine, vitamins, minerals. It makes you big and strong."

Deanna scurried over, hiding behind the walls, quiet as can be. Dean pushed harder against Azazel, struggling.

"For what?" He questioned, keeping those yellow-eyes on him. "So they can lead your discount demon army? Is that your big plan?"

"Please," he sneered. "My endgame's a hell of a lot bigger than that, kid."

"Endgame? What endgame?" He shook his head again, teasing.

"You know I'm not going to tell you," he tutted. "Or those angels sitting on your shoulder. No." He stood up, looking down at Dean. "I'm gonna cover my tracks good."

The smile overcame his mouth, fresh on red lips. "You can cover whatever the hell you want," he told the other. "I'm still gonna kill you."

"Right. Now that," he pointed, shaking his finger. "I'd like to see."

"Maybe not today," Dean continued. "But you look into my eyes, you son of a bitch. Because there's something else that makes me special." He uncovered his pupils, vision adjusting, irises green. "Do what you want, what you think will make you safe. It won't matter in the long run, because me, I'm the one who kills you."

He knows Azazel sees the truth in his eyes, hears as he buries the fear in a laugh. "What, then? Are you going to save everyone, now? Is that it?" He watched as Deanna started inching towards the Colt. "Well, I'll tell you the one person you're not going to save." He holds a knife up to his stomach, steel metal touching the shirt. "Your grandpapy."

Deanna screams as the dagger stabs through Samuel's stomach, black film slipping back over Dean's eyes in a rage. Azazel turns to the woman, tilting his head, but Dean manages to push her back into the other room and slam the doors shut.

The yellow-eyed demon sends him a scowl, putting more force to hold Dean down. He strides to the kitchen where Deanna is, opening the doors. Dean hears the cracking of bones as he's suddenly released, racing to the room, only to be met by a corpse.

* * *

The car drove across the streets, Dean following the traces of Azazel's pure power. He stops at a clearing, lights blaring into the night, demonic eyes seeing the ugly truth.

He's too late.

The yellow-eyed demon is already locking lips with his mother, the contract sealed. He barely remembers to hide his eyes, running over to them, shouting out.

They break apart suddenly, Mary looking miserable. Azazel simply smirks, leaving the scene in a flurry of black smoke.

They stare at one another for the longest time, Dean's face full of disappointment. John gasps to life but he doesn't look, fists clenched.

He hears the flutter of wings, glancing behind his back. Castiel's big blue eyes meet his, full of so much emotion Dean didn't know he was capable of having. His hand reaches out to his shoulder in a semblance of comfort, watching as his eyes flash erratically as he makes contact with the imprint on his shoulder. Something breaks at that and Dean's knees give up on him, Castiel catching him just in time, and the demon only shakes as those arms wrap around him tightly.

He feels as they disappear, but he doesn't panic. Just hangs on.

* * *

Dean blinks awake, sitting up immediately. Castiel is already there, right beside his form. He breathes heavily, wishing it was just a dream but knowing that it wasn't.

"I couldn't stop any of it," he told the angel, voice raspy against his throat. "She still made the deal. She still died in the nursery, didn't she?"

"Don't be too hard on yourself," was the reply, and Dean felt all the hate come rushing back. "You couldn't have stopped it."

He slowly stood from the bed, looking down at the other being. Castiel stared straight ahead, not meeting his eyes.

"What?"

"You could never have stopped it," he continued. "Destiny can't be changed, Dean." He finally faced the demon, looking up into his hard expression. "All roads lead to the same destination."

"Then why," he faltered for a second, disbelieving. "Then why'd you send me back?"

"For the truth," he answered. "Now you know everything we do."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Castiel only shifted his gaze pointedly to the other bed, cleanly made and devoid of his brother. The worry forced it's way into words. "Where's Sam?"

"We know what Azazel did to your brother," Castiel told him. "What we don't know is _why_- what his endgame is. He went to great lengths to cover that up."

"Where's Sam?" Dean repeated, and his eyes settled on black. He found the answer before the words came out of Castiel's mouth, saw the wisps of not-quite human energy that was left behind.

"I think you know," he answered, and Dean did. Castiel watched as his charge went to his bags, slipping on his jacket and preparing to leave. "You brother is heading down a dangerous road, Dean," he warned. "And we're not sure where it leads. So stop it, or we will."

Dean only looks up at the last words, a mixture of emotions scrawled over his features, but the angel is already gone.

* * *

_Sorry about the wait! I'll try to make the next update quicker. Hope you enjoyed :)_


	12. Chapter Eleven

The body bag was zipped open, black material revealing the corpse inside. Skin was a sickly pale, rough bruises under closed eyelids, and behind his sunglasses Dean could see the absence of the man's soul.

The coroner didn't spare them a glance, vision trained on the body. "Agent Tyler, Agent Perry, meet Frank O'Brien."

Sam gave the man a hard look. "He died of a heart attack, right?" He questioned, suit tight around broad shoulders.

The coroner nodded. "Three days ago." Sam hummed thoughtfully.

"But O'Brien was forty-four years old," the younger reminded them. He held up the file in his hands. "And according to this, a marathon runner."

"Everybody drops dead sooner or later," he dismissed.

"Yeah," Dean spoke up. "But Frank kicked it here. Now, just yesterday, two perfectly healthy men bit it in Maumee. All heart attacks. You don't think that's strange?"

He shrugged. "That sounds like Maumee's problem to me," he answered, and Dean envied the sheer ignorance coming off the puny mortal idiot. "Why's the FBI give a damn, anyway?"

"We just want to see the results of Frank's autopsy," Dean decided, pushing the strange thoughts to the very back of his mind. The coroner gave them a confused look.

"What autopsy?" Dean smiled at him, deviously.

"The one you're gonna do."

It was a moment later before the blade was cutting through dry skin, creating a thin pink line across Frank's bare torso. The two made faces at the disgusting slimy noise that came from the contact, but were otherwise stoic.

"First dead body?" The coroner aimed at them, cutting the rough flesh with some difficulty.

They both shook their heads. "Far from it," Dean answered, and the other man grinned.

"That's good," he replied. "These suckers can get pretty ripe." He tore harder into the corpse. "Hey, hand me those rib-cutters, would you?"

Dean looked to the side, clasping the tool in strong fingers. He gave it to the coroner, Sam watching.

Dean's eyes found a deep bruise in one of the man's fingers, knuckles battered and covered in new scars. He frowned. "Is that from a wedding ring?"

"Looks like it," the coroner grunted.

"I didn't know he was married," Dean murmured, glancing at his brother.

"Ain't my department," the shorter of the three told them. Sam picked up the arm with gloved hands, turning it around to reveal the suspicious burns and marks.

"Any idea how he got that?"

"You know what?" Came the reply, tone both sarcastic and irritated. "When you drop dead, you actually do drop. Body probably got scrapped up when it hit the ground." He paused in his work, tilting his head.

"What?"

"Well, I can't find any blockages in any other major arteries," he told them. He pulled the heart from its place, cold blood covering the cool material of the gloves, and Dean suddenly felt squeamish. He choked a little, fighting back the urge to vomit.

"Hold this a second, would'ja?" He pushed the dead muscle into Dean's hand, limp and feeling like ice. Sam stifled a laugh with the back of his hand, but the grin faded when a splotch of blood splattered across his face.

They both whipped their heads towards him. "Oh, sorry," the coroner apologized, not sounding very sorry at all. "Spleen juice."

Sam scowled, Dean smirking ever so slightly, the heart heavy in his palms.

* * *

The two sat uncomfortably in the stuff chairs, the waiting room empty save for the officer at the desk. Dean's feet tapped against the carpet, tension solid in the room, and the awkward smiles that the officer sent them didn't help ease it.

It was a while until the door finally opened, sherif behind the glass and wood barrier. He stopped in mid-sentence, eyeing them as they both stood and straightened their suits. "Who are they?"

The other cop was a small thing, young and freckled with a head of thick black hair. He glanced at his boss nervously, just out of the corner of his eye. "Federal agents, sir."

The sherif grunted unhappily at that. "And you kept them waiting?"

His forehead creased. "You said not to disturb you." The sherif scoffed, waving them over.

He stopped them right at the door, hand held up. "Shoes off," he ordered, narrowing his eyes at Dean. "And take those glasses off." His fingers snatched the shades right off Dean's nose, and the demon just barely had time to uncover the black film over his eyes.

Dean scowled as his vision shifted, more human and limited, kicking his shoes off along with Sam. The sherif gave him the glasses but he didn't bother putting them back on, following the other man into the room.

It was extremely organized, every nook and cranny polished and dusted off. Trophies shined proudly on the display case in the corner, the two taking seats in comfortable leather chairs. Dean surveyed the room, mildly impressed.

"Al Briton," the sherif introduced, shaking their hands in turn. He stood near the desk across from them, ruffling through the drawers.

He finally found what he was searching for, fingers closing around the container of hand sanitizer. The brothers watched as he lopped it onto his palms in alarming quantities, covering every bit of skin with the sharp-smelling substance.

"So," he finally said, taking a seat along with the Winchesters. "What can I do for Uncle Sam?"

"Well," Sammy started. "We're looking into the death of Frank O'Brien. We understand some of your men found his body."

Al looked at them, long and hard. "They did," he agreed, pupils watery. "Me and Frank- we were friends," he told them. "Hell, we were gamecocks."

Dean spluttered, laughing. It came to an abrupt stop when Al glared at him, expression hurt. "That was our softball team's name," he said. "They're majestic animals." Dean tried to keep a straight face, mouth twitching.

Al looked down, dismissing him. "I knew Frank from high school. To be honest, I just this morning got the strength to see him. Frank was a good man."

"Yeah," Dean murmured. "Big heart." Sam took it from there, directing the sherif's attention away from the shorter.

"Before he died, did you notice Frank acting strange? Maybe scared of something?"

"Well, hell yeah," he answered. "Real jumpy."

"You know what scared him?"

"No," he admitted. "Wouldn't answer his phone. Finally, I sent some of my boys to check on him. And, well, you know the rest." Dean thought on that, eyebrows furrowed, Sam wearing the same expression.

A cough forced its way up the sherif's throat, bringing a rage of choking with it. He grabbed for the hand sanitizer, soaking his palms in the liquid once more as he spluttered. The two didn't really know what to say, watching the spectacle with a mix of amusement and horror.

"So, why the Feds give a crap? You don't actually think there's a case here?" Al asked them, coughing dying down. He lathered his fingers with the sanitizer, waiting.

"No, no, it's probably nothing," Dean promised, lying through his teeth. "Just a heart attack."

* * *

"No way that was just a heart attack," Dean told his brother, both striding across the pavement. The afternoon was cloudy, sky imprinted with a large shroud of grey. The air was thick with the scent of petrichor, pavement stained with spots of gradually drying rain.

"Definitely no way," Sam agreed. "Three victims, all went to jittery to terrified to dead within forty-eight hours."

"So what, something scared them to death?" Sam sighed, nodding. "All right then, what can do that?"

"What can't?" Sam reasoned. "Ghost, vampires, chupacabra. Could be a hundred different things."

"Yeah," he agreed, twisting his sunglasses between his fingers.

"Hey," Sam said suddenly, nudging him.

"Yeah?"

"Do you," he faltered, searching for the right words. "I don't know, sense anything?"

"Sense?" Sam nodded. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Maybe you can tell if there's been another demon with those, erm, abilities of yours?"

Dean sighed. "No, not really," he said. The only thing that had been on Frank's body was a few lasting trails of ever-bright life, almost like the energy of a ghost.

He stopped suddenly, freezing in place, and Sam stopped with him.

"You okay?" He asked, concern, but Dean didn't pay him any mind. His pupils were swallowed in black, teeth baring at the group of teenagers near the Impala. They were grouped up by the vehicle, sweaty and disgusting, tempting for him to crush.

Sam shook him on the shoulder but he didn't look at him, still glaring at the teens. He shook him harder, and Dean finally glanced over, irises still gone.

"What?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "What's with you?" Dean nearly whimpered, seething.

"I don't like the looks of those teenagers," he said. Sammy grew even more puzzled, trying to brush it aside.

"Let's just walk this way," he suggested, turning on his heel and heading across the street. Dean followed after him, heart racing.

* * *

_Sorry, this chapter was a bit overdue. I'm going to start changing my _**Bio **_the week that I'll be updating, in order to give better update times. I'll also be posting another chapter tomorrow :) Hope you enjoyed reading!_


	13. Chapter Twelve

_Thanks for the reviews, follows, and favorites, guys. I know that I already post the appreciation under my_ **Bio**, _but it means a lot, especially when I check back five minutes after posting and see an extra fifty views or some new followers. You mortals are pretty awesome. _

_Also, I made a thing. You Destiel lovers might like this thing. It's on my Ao3 account, Kako, and it's titled "Miracles". I would post the link but it won't let me :( Enjoy the chapter, and sorry it was a bit late!_

* * *

"Tyler and Perry," Mark mused, grin bright on his face. "Just like Aerosmith."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Small world."

The house was sloppy but cozy, smelling of coffee beans and filled with the sound of slithering snakes. Thousands of carpets were thrown on the ground to cover up stains, blankets upon blankets piled up on the wool couch. The shelves were stacked with tanks and cages, all filled with reptiles and arachnids and other pets many didn't generally keep around.

A snake coiled around Mark's shoulders, pattern ingrained upon scales. The victim's neighbor still wore that smile, dimples showing on untanned skin.

"When was the last time you saw Frank O'Brien?" Sam asked, standing up straight with expression sincere.

"Monday," he answered. "He was watching me from his window." He nudged his head toward the open glass, curtains blowing ever so slightly in the gentle drift.

Sam hummed. "Did you speak to him recently? Maybe he seemed different, scared?"

"Oh, totally," Mark agreed, nodding vigorously. "He was freaking out." The snake tightened just a fraction on his shoulders, and Dean tensed.

Sam glanced over at him, light dusting of a frown adorning his lips. Dean was too busy glaring at the crocodile in the tank in the corner, almost willing it to come over so he could tear it to shreds.

He blinked a bit at that, looking over to the two. "Did you, uh, do you know what scared him?"

"Well, yeah," he answered. "Witches." The brothers exchanged a look.

"Witches?" Sam repeated. "Like..." Mark fidgeted, the reptile on his back worming down his arm.

"Well, 'Wizard of Oz' was on TV the other night, right? And he said that green bitch was totally out to get him."

Dean opened his mouth a few times, closing it decisively, so Sam took over. "Anything else scare him?"

"_Everything_ else scared him," Mark said. "Al-Qaeda, ferrets, artificial sweeteners, those Pez dispensers with their dead little eyes, lots of stuff." Dean looked around the room as he spoke, glaring at any animal that moved in a promise to kill it when he was given the chance.

"So, tell me," Sam said. "What was Frank like?" At this, the man looked uncomfortable, turning his gaze on the floor.

He finally sighed. "I mean, he's dead, you know? I don't want to hammer him. He got better."

"He got better?"

He breathed in deeply. "Well, in high school, he was a dick."

Sam, to his credit, looked only half as amused as Dean felt. "A dick?"

"Like a bully," Mark elaborated. "I mean, he probably taped half the town's butt cheeks together, mine included." Dean chuckled at that, earning himself a dirty look.

He cleared his throat. "So he pissed a lot of people off. You think anyone would have wanted to get revenge?"

"Well, I don't-" he falter. "Frank died of a heart attack, right?"

"Just answer the questioned, sir," Sam urged, and he gave in.

"No, I don't think so," Mark continued. "Like I said, _he got better_. And after what happened to his wife-"

"His wife?" Dean flashed backed to the bruises on Frank's ring finger, dark and purple. "So he was married."

"She died about twenty years ago," he told the brothers. "Frank was really broken up about it." Dean nodded, but his concentration was focused back on the reptile on Mark's shoulders, slithering across his shoulder blades. He made a mix of a grunt and a growl in the back of his throat, alert.

Mark picked up on it, slightly puzzled, but his smile came back full-force with a reassuring turn on it. "Do be scared of Donny," he joked, but where there was fear there was ten times the anger and ferociousness to cover it up. "He's a sweetheart. It's Marie you have to look out for."

The question was on the tip of his tongue but the sensation of the reptile as it crawled up his back answered it. Dean sat rigid, jaw clenched and fingers fisted. Sam looked concerned and like he wanted to laugh all at once, but the snake made the mistake of allowing its scales to brush against his neck.

Dean's eyes flickered, teeth barring as he hissed at it and lunged. One of the tanks on the far wall exploded in a burst of water, distracting Mark long enough for Sam to drag his brother out, both leaving the decapitated snake corpse behind.

* * *

Dean sat secluded in the Impala, scratching angrily at his arm. Sam had ordered him to stay in the car as he went out, both not quite having enough courage to address the incident from a mere few hours ago. His eyes scanned the files but didn't read the words, switching back from black to green anxiously.

He was interrupted from his turmoil by the sound of the car door creaking open, a burst of cool night air spilling into the vehicle. Sam plopped into the passenger seat, smelling like sprinkles of dew on the very tips of morning grass, brown irises warm and bright.

"Any luck?" He questioned, just a bit too cheery, but Dean couldn't bring himself to mind.

"Kind of," he answered. "Frank's wife, Jessie, was a manic-depressive. She went off her meds back in eighty-eight and vanished." He handed his younger brother the old news report, gingerly passing the crinkled paper into his hands. "They found her two weeks later, three towns over, strung up to the ceiling. Suicide."

"Any chance Frank helped her along to the other side?" He shook his head dejectedly.

"No," Dean sighed. "He was working a swing shift when she disappeared. Airtight alibi." He reached forward, turning on the engine with only minor opposition from Sam. The Impala got on the road with a start, rumbling across the street.

"So, uh," Sam started out. "What exactly happened back there?"

"Back where?"

"You know what I'm talking about," Sam scolded. "With the snake."

He shrugged. "It was... creepy."

"So you ripped off its head and made the turtle's tank explode?" Dean huffed.

"So what if I did?" Sam held up his hands, about to reply when his vision caught on one of the dials on the Impala's dashboard.

"Dude, you're going twenty," he noted. Dean shrugged.

"So?" The world looked so dangerous under the flashes of his true vision, the energy of life trailing the roads and wisps of souls that were long gone hanging onto the Earth. He could see the imprints of death everywhere he looked, could see his own form under human skin whenever he dared to peak, and it was really no wonder why his eyes wouldn't settle.

Everything was fucking scary.

"That's the speed limit," Sam pushed, oblivious to Dean's inner-musings, and he found that it was probably better that way. Dean simply rolled his eyes.

"So what, safety's a crime now?" Sam decided to stay quiet, glancing out the foggy-window and seeing the blurred glow of neon behind it. The Impala did not, however, turn into the parking lot to their motel, driving on.

"Where are you going? That was our hotel." Dean sent the younger and incredulous look.

"Sam, I'm not going to make a left-hand turn into on-coming traffic. I'm not suicidal." He paused briefly, considering the sentence. "Did I just say that? That's kind of weird." He let out a shaky laugh, fingers trembling slightly on the wheel as cars whizzed past. All the ways that they could crash, all the ways that Sammy could be impaled-

"Did you hear something?" The taller asked, digging into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled out the device, small and polished, watching the red lights glow and the machinery buzz as it picked up on insanely high EMF levels.

"Why are you doing that?" Dean bit out, voice furious. "Put that away, Sam. I don't need the friggin' distraction." He wholly ignored his brother, instead pointing it in the demon's direction, watching as the activity levels increased.

"Dean..." He trailed off, but the other humphed.

"C'mon," he mocked. "I'm probably messing with the thing, since I came back from Hell and all." Sam gave his brother an unimpressed look.

"You and me both know what this picks up, and it's not demons," Sam said. He waited for his overly-stressed brother to catch on, eyes widening when he did.

"You mean... I'm haunted?" When he didn't answer, the question turned into a yell. "_Am I haunted?_"

Sam couldn't give him an answer, worry creeping up into his bones.

* * *

He walked past the all-too colorful paintings inscribed on the walls, holding a fresh and packaged pie in his hands. The phone call was finished and device put away, Sam making his way to the car in the parking lot.

The morning was dim, gradually wearing into afternoon. The sun lazily graced the hazy blue canvas overhead, his shoes making a loud thunking sound as they hit the damp asphalt.

He could hear Survivor playing from the radio as he got closer, Dean spread across the seats as he played air drums. He pounded on the roof, jumping back when the windows exploded, pie slipping out of his hands.

Dean struggled out of the car, gasping, eyes uncontrollable. It took a while for him to calm down, shards of glass crunching under their boots.

"Are you okay?" He asked, finally. The concern turned into anger quickly enough. "What were you thinking, sneaking up on me like that?"

Sam, at that moment, was wistfully wishing more than anything that demons could be immune to ghost hauntings. But no, apparently not, judging by recent events.

"Sorry," he surrendered. "I brought you pie, but..." He gestured to the mess of apples and dough on the ground, flecks of cinnamon spilled over flimsy wrappings and the cold pavement. He expected Dean to grow even angrier than that, relieved when the demon dismissed it with some evident difficulty.

"Whatever," he snarled, but the furrowed eyebrows slowly faded into a kind of helplessness, akin to what Dean would look like when John told him off and he would cry when he thought Sammy wasn't paying attention, and he found that he could _hear_ his heart breaking.

"How's it going?" Sam asked, gentle, and Dean softened even more.

"I- I don't know," he admitted, pulling back his sleeve. Nasty marks were carved into skin, surrounding flesh angry red from scratching. Sam took Dean's arm in his fingers, eyes narrowing, brushing against one of the scars and watching as Dean took his limb back and began scratching like it was on instinct.

Sam left him to it, continuing on. "I just talked to Bobby," he said. "And, well, you're not gonna like it." He watched as Dean clasped his hands shut, rubbing his palms against one another and turning the skin raw. "It's ghost sickness."

"Ghost sickness?" His irises, a clear vibrant emerald, looked pained. He collapsed against the car, mindful of the damage, before popping the question. "What's ghost sickness?"

"Okay," Sam began. "Some cultures believe that certain spirits can infect the living with a disease, which is why they stopped displaying bodies in houses and started taking them off to funeral homes."

He nodded. "Okay, get to the good stuff."

"Symptoms are you get anxious, then scared, then really scared, and then your heart gives out." He inwardly shuddered at the idea at loosing his brother again, desperate to keep a straight face and knowing he was failing. "Sound familiar?"

He remembered the remains of what he had thought to be retreating life from Frank's body, crawling up his wrist and sinking into skin. It wasn't the dead man's soul, after all, but the traces of a spirit's curse.

He gagged, heart racing, and Sam was pushed back by an invisible force as Dean's telekinesis went wild. He stumbled, regaining his footing just in time and yelping loudly, and Dean managed to focus.

The next words came out panicked. "So, what, he passed it on to the others?" He remembered the reports in Maumee, the victims that had drawn them to this case. Sam nodded.

"They were part of a team in a softball tournament. He must have infected the others there." Dean clenched and unclenched his fists nervously, teeth gritting against each other and producing a rubbery squeak.

"So, what, I only have forty-eight hours until I go?" Sam breathed in.

"More like twenty-four," he reminded them, and Dean whimpered. It was one of the other inhuman sounds he's developed rising back to Earth, and Sam's resolve just shattered.

"Hey, we're going to make it out of this, okay?" Dean didn't bother answering, trembling from head-to-toe. "Dean," he said, grabbing the shorter's attention. "Bobby is working on it right now. Why don't you go to our room and relax?"

He fidgeted. "I, erm, can't." Sam tilted his head, confused.

"Why?" Dean pointed to the hotel, eyeing the building.

"Our room's on the fourth floor." Sam shrugged, not getting the point, and Dean mumbled out the rest. "It's, uh, it's high." He was reminded of the sound of an airplane as it left the ground, flying them high just so they could fall so much farther, and when it landed, the way it shook as the wheels touched the ground as if it was angry that they had all lived. If it didn't crash along the way.

"I'll see if I can move us down to the first," Sam promised. Dean smiled at him, heart beating too fast, and he resisted the urge to run over to his brother and sink into his arms as Sam walked back.


End file.
